


Cracked

by MickletheKoala



Series: Cracked [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: ALot of Flashbacks, Bullying, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Egg thiefing, Fuck you oscar you silly cunt, Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multiple Points of View, No spoilers allowed, Some fuckery happens later on but ill tag it then, Underage Smoking, Whoops theres Underage Drinking, and sex, domestic abuse, not really sex though, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-02 12:43:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13318350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MickletheKoala/pseuds/MickletheKoala
Summary: Albert Nelson, or Al is a twenty five year old part time artist and gas station manager. He was also the victim of a vicious bully named Oscar Winston, way back in highschool which is even further back in '88. So it came as quite the shock when he met an older, much more mellow Oscar that was.....flirting with him?They start dating, even have kids together, but things aren't as happy as they seem when Oscar reveals his true nature.TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR ABUSE, RAPE AND OTHER HORRIBLE SHIT. Check Cartmanyaoi on deviantart out for more Cracked art.ARThttps://cartmanyaoi.deviantart.com/art/Highschool-Oscar-Winston-728281195https://cartmanyaoi.deviantart.com/art/Highschool-Albert-Nelson-727490828https://cartmanyaoi.deviantart.com/art/Albert-2001-725145078https://cartmanyaoi.deviantart.com/art/Albert-and-Oscar-Highschool-Years-724801156https://cartmanyaoi.deviantart.com/art/Nicole-Nelson-728280502https://cartmanyaoi.deviantart.com/art/Pregnant-Nicole-728280755





	1. Planets, Awards and Albert

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd but I would like people to speak their minds in the comments. I hope its as addictive to read as it is to write. ^_^  
> ART is in the description.

The Nelson Household  
1988

Dear Diary,  
Oscar Winston. Must I say anything else? Oh, alright. I will, I will since you insist. Oscar Winston, as you know is my biggest bully. The threat to my very existence. One time he even punched me so hard, he knocked out three teeth! Gosh, that hurt. Oscar locked me in a locker before second period so I got suspended for skipping school. They're always so hard on me here, even though I've got straight A's. Ted says it's cause I'm gay, but I couldn't really help getting a woody during gym practice that one time. Anyways, he locked me in. Later-

\-----  
1988  
BlackBerry High School

Al was running as fast as he could, he just couldn't get caught, not again. He stumbles as he's running, trips and flies headfirst into a hard object. No, not object, person. He attempts to lessen the impact -for the person's benefit- but instead topples them over with him. It's all quite loud and his head is aching from it.  
To top it off, all his books and papers scatter.

Still, he quickly scrambles up, offering quick apologies before going to run off once again. He is (not so unexpectedly) caught by the arm in a firm grip. 

"Hey, let-"

"Whats your deal, kid?"

He is met with an unsurprisingly unfamiliar voice, he is new here. Not new enough to be bully-free, but that's expected. Not many people appreciate someone six years their junior learning at their level, much less succeeding and going on to have extra work while they themselves typically struggle. He looks up so he can put a face to the voice, and is met with a different sight to say the least. 

Wavy and perfectly coiffed red hair shape two emerald eyes and a strong, chiseled jaw. He is, to be frank, the most attractive person Al has ever had the pleasure of seeing.

"Oh. I'm sorry. My names Albert but you can call me Al most people do and I really don't mind anyways so it's not a big deal if you do or don't, just call me either I don't care really-"

"Whoa, there Speed Racer, take a breath. Al, is it? Juniper. Care to elaborate on why you're going 60 in a 10 area?" He smiles, a perfect smile. Al would gush if he were a gusher. Which he is.

"Oh, uh I-I-I-I-I was being chased an-an-and I had t-to ge-ge-ge-get out-outta there."

"You were getting chased? By who, a pack of wolves? That's some speed you were at."

"Y-yeah I guess I w-was. Well, n-nice to me-ee-meet you. Gotta ge-get going, now." His 'yeah' sounding more like a 'hyeah'. He went to run off once more, abandoning his books, only to be stopped. Again.

"Hey, you live near here?"

Al blushes. A stranger, especially an attractive and teenaged stranger wanted to know where he lived? He almost shit twice and died right there. "Y-yeah. W-why do you wanna kn-know?"

"I figured we could study together, maybe. I'm new here, just got today's assignments from the receptionist. I know you're in the same grade as me, 'cos I see you've got the same books as me. Unless you just like some not-so-light reading." He smiles the perfect smile again, bends down and actually picks up Al's books and papers. He could faint.

"S-sure. Here, my number is wr-written on th-the green f-fo-folder." Juniper gives Al his things, minus the folder and quickly copies the number down onto a notepad Al just noticed is hanging from a string on his  
-handsome- neck. He gives the folder back as well, tucking a pen back in his pocket.

"I'll call ya sometime, Al. See ya."

Al waves pathetically as Juniper jogs over to a bike, before heading to the parking lot. His parents are probably getting tired of waiting.  
\--------  
2001  
Sweet Marie's Lousiana Cafe

For once in his 31 years, Oscar is surprised. He really shouldn't be, always knew his little birdy would fly home, but still. It was quite the shock to run into him after twelve, almost thirteen years. Yet, there he was. Cozied up by a bayside window, on a soft reclined sofa, reading a book. He almost didn't want to disturb him. Almost. Let it be stated that Oscar has never claimed to be a patient man.

He quickly marches up to his songbird -screams so beautifully- tapping him on the shoulder, hard. He quickly turns -still jumpy, Oscar notes- and his beautiful ocean eyes widen, in surprise or fear. Or both.

“Oscar? Is it really you?” Oscar is disappointed to see his stammer is gone. Oh, well.

He feigns nonchalance, shrugging lazily. “I dunno. I might be Anna now. Of course it’s me, silly.”

Albert frowns at this, -it doesn’t suit him, Oscar notes- closing his book after dog-earing it and standing up. If there's one definitive thing he hates about Albert, it’s that he outgrew him. By quite a lot. He stands at a proud five feet, eight inches himself, while Al towers like a giant gangly freak at six feet, three inches. He mentally sneers at this, a small smile on his face .

“Don't be so snarky, Oscar. Wow, I haven’t seen you since gr-graduation. How have you been?”

It’s not a sincere question, Oscar can tell. He's nervous, but hiding it well. He likes the brief and short-lived return of the stammer though.

“I'm hardly snarky, dearest Albert. I’ve been well, you?”

“Fine, I guess.” He looks uncomfortable with the usage of the word ‘dearest’. “S-so, what brings you to this fine city?” Did Oscar mention they’re in Chicago? No? Well, put it at the top next time, please. 

“Work. General boredom with country life, I suppose. Fuck, you look great, though. You’ve put on weight since high school huh?” The change isn’t very obvious to anyone else, only ten or fifteen pounds. But Oscar can tell. He didn’t spend so much time studying the other so often in school for nothing.

“Uh, yeah. Couple pounds here and there.” He’s uncomfortable again and Oscar would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. “Um.” He twiddles his thumbs, voice dropping to a whisper. “You're not gonna beat on me, are you?” Oscar has to suppress a grin at that, guts stirring with arousal at the fear in that voice.

“Of course not, Al. I’ve changed a lot since high school, just like you. I’d actually like to take you to lunch, if that’s alright with you? To apologize for my awful behavior all those years ago.” He takes care to look extra sincere, fake humility in his sheepish expression.

Al relaxes quite a bit, blushing and nodding his head at a furious pace. It was painfully obvious that the boy had a crush on him, probably why he beat him so bad. He was suddenly reminded of his mother’s angry, tearful words. “like father, like son!” He snaps out of his daze as Al writes down his number and holds it out to him. He takes it, hand shaking in an illusion of meekness.

“Thanks for being so understanding, Al. You coulda just told me to fuck off, but you gave me your number instead.” He beams at him, not faking for once. He truly enjoyed the blonde’s company.

He types the digits into his phone, shooting off a quick text to make certain he got it right. Sure enough, Al’s phone dinged, signaling a received text. Al smiles, sends Oscar his address in response.

“I gotta go, Oscar. See ya Saturday? For lunch, I mean.” He looks down at him, reminding Oscar once again of their height difference. It sours his mouth a bit but he brushes it off, returning Al’s grin.

“Saturday is perfect. I’ll pick you up at 11:30, yeah?”

“Yeah. Really, it’s cool to see you again.” He dips his head and runs out of the building, leaving Oscar nearly flabbergasted. He smirks again. Always such a coward. He could hardly contain his excitement, though. Albert was going to be his. He was sure of it. All he needed was some wooing and soon he’d be eating out of Oscar's hand like a newly reunited pup with its master. Master. He liked the sound of that.

\----


	2. Tattoos, Deals and Gas Stations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd again. The lunch date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up in the comments, please! Also, I'm working on some character designs for these two! I prefer comic/cartoon type drawing, so bear with me. I'll link it, when its up.

Nelson Household  
1988  
Dear Diary,  
I just met the nicest boy! His name is Juniper and he wants to come over to study! I gave him our phone number, and he even called! So then we exchanged numbers and addresses and wow! He’s really cute too. Anyways, that’s all for now diary! –

“Pl-please, Oscar! You don’t have t-to do-“ he shrieks as he’s dangled over the edge of a bridge by this psycho masquerading as a student. 

“You’re right, Allison, I don’t have to. But that doesn’t really matter, does it? ‘Cos I’m doing it, and I’ll probably do it again.” Oh god, Al really hopes he doesn’t do this again. He'd cringe at the ‘nickname’, but emasculation hardly matters when you're being dangled over the edge of a bridge.

He shrieks again as he’s lowered a bit more, precariously over the precipice. “Pl-please!! I can’t swim, Oscar! I’ll drown, I’ll drown!!” he feels a warmth between his thighs and is mortified by the realization that he just pissed himself. Oscar, however grins.

“You just piss yourself, Alli? Do you need a bath?” He loosens his grip, barely holding the boy by his shirt. He nearly erupts with laughter at the shriek that gets.

“OSCAR!! PLEASE! DON'T! Please, yo-you'll drop me!” His eyes are full of tears, he’s red in the face and he just pissed himself. Oscar feels the half-chub he himself is sporting, but shrugs it off. He is, however surprised that he no longer wants to torment the boy so much, not when he begs so well.

So, he lifts him, sits him on the edge of the railing and grabs him by the jaw, squeezing his baby fat cheeks in a vice grip. “You gonna be a good bitch, now? And bark for your master?” He felt a bit ridiculous, still holding onto that order; to have Al crawl on allfours, bark and shake his ass like he’s wagging. 

Hell, even Al looks a bit surprised. Still, he shakes his head frantically, gasping for air after his panic attack. “Y-yes! I’ll do anything, I swear, Oscar!” Only when the boy's hot breath hits his face, does Oscar realize how close he's leaning into the strawberry blonde. He doesn’t step back.

“Anything? You'll do anything?” He is unsurprised by how excited his body gets, below the belt from that statement in and of itself. Anything is quite the broad spectrum, and Oscar is teenaged after all.

“Yes.” He's calmed down significantly, able to breathe and think articulately. “Yes. I promise.”

Oscar doesn’t really want to lower himself to giving this kid his digits, but he does once he’s lowered Al to the ground. “I'll call you when I need you. Only call me if you’re about to die or whatever. Have fun walking home, dweeb.”

A timid hand taps at his back, igniting more of Oscar's anger, but it's quelled considerably when he reminds himself he practically owns the kid now. He turns, Al cowering a bit as he looks down at him. Has he mentioned how much he hates the fact that a twelve year old is taller than him?

“What. Do you want now?”

Al reddens further, feverish in appearance. “C-could you puh-please walk me home?”

He’s tempted to say no, but those eyes won’t allow him. He'd be lying if he said that he didn’t harbor feelings for him at all, what with his cherubic appearance, buckteeth, big eyes and all.

“Why should I do that? You owe me, if I’m remembering our conversation correctly. “

He looks at his feet, appearing shorter and even smaller. “B-because I’ll get b-bullied on th-the way back. If you’re there, nobody (said like nuh buddy) will b-bother me.”

“Fine. But only ‘cos I might need you tonight, and you’re useless if you’ve been beaten too bad.”

And so, he walks him home, holding his hand when the boy asks. And pretends it was Al’s hand that was clammy.

 

Mickey’s Diner  
2001  
Al twiddles his thumbs, a nervous tick he’s had for as long as he can remember. He checks the paper in his hand again, making 100 percent he’s at the right diner. It says he is, but where’s Oscar? He was nervous, yet at the time ecstatic about re-meeting him, nervous because he had been his bully after all. And ecstatic because, well he had harbored a bit of a crush on him since he first met him.

Which he knows is screwed up, all things considered. Oscar was the reason he couldn’t bend his thumb, he was the reason he was missing three teeth, he was the reason his hair had fallen out for three months. He had tortured him when he was younger, but he said he’s changed. Which would be easier to believe if he’d actually arrive. He was about to leave, when the diner bell dinged and he could hear the other man's familiar gruff voice. 

“Oscar! Over here!” He waves his arm like a lunatic, but hardly cares. Gosh, he was so bored.

Oscar strides over, his posture excellent in comparison to his hunch when he was eighteen. 

He smiles once he slides into the booth across Al, and Al’s heart skips a beat nearly. “Sorry if I kept you waiting too long, traffic from my place was hell.”

Al shrugs, lies and says, “Nah, I just got here. Got our menus though.” He slides one over to Oscar.

Oscar doesn’t believe him one bit, but lets it slide. He'd do better than to lie, though. “Thanks,” he says.

They silently look over their menus, a comfortable silence between them. Al looks over his, despite the fact he had his order memorized by now, price included. A waitress comes by, takes their orders, then stalks off, hips swaying. 

“So, Al. You’ve been well, you said. Where you working, now? I remember you always sketching during class. Even caught a look, they weren’t half bad. You an artist?”

Al beams, pleasantly surprised by Oscar's memory and praise. “Uh, sort of.” Oscar raises a brow. “Well, artists don’t make much unless they’ve got fame or notoriety, so I’ve been doing commissions and working as a manager at the Fill Em Up on Walker St.” He’s nor ashamed working at a gas station, he did have to pay off his student loans from Art School, after all.

“Manager, huh? You’re pretty young, you must be good at your job, then.”

He blushes at the praise, surprised by Oscar’s change of character. Then again, it had been twelve years. “N-not really, they’d just understaffed and I’ve got flexible-“ 

Oscar cuts him off. “Nonsense! You're good, Al. Good heart, smart, adorable.”

Al flusters, resembling a tomato now. “You don’t mean that.”

Oscar leans in, grabs his hand and rubs it, in circles. “Yeah. Yeah you are. I won’t let anyone say otherwise. I’ve always liked you, Al. Even if I didn’t show it, I did.”

Al looks down, fiddles with a loose thread on the hem of his shirt. The waitress comes over, drops off their drinks, assures them their order will arrive in twenty minutes, then walks off again. Al pretends he didn’t see her judgmental look, at how close they are.

“Thanks.” He pulls his hand away, stopping when it’s met with resistance. Oscar is looking into his eyes, or attempting to, considering Al will hardly meet his gaze.

“I mean it. Just call me or I dunno tell me if someone bothers you. I’ll fuck em up.”

It was nice to see he hasn't completely changed.  
They ate, asking each other casual questions, more ‘Where do you work?’, ‘What was your Major and Minor in College?’, ‘Apartment or House?’, ‘Christina or Brittney?’ In Al’s case it was ‘Who would you be friends with?’ He was surprised that Oscar knew he was gay, much less accepted it.

Al answered them all of course, and so did Oscar. Oscar works as a tattoo artist, which didn’t surprise Al, the other man had been covered in ink even at eighteen. Oscar only went to night classes so he could legally tattoo, he had a house, neither because he hates pop music.

The answers Al provided were: Apartment, Art and History, Christina. He smiled at Oscar the whole time, listening to his crazy tattoo stories, bar fights and hospital visits. He had a lot of stories to tell, and Al was an eager listener. When Oscar then suggested going out for drinks later that day, at eight, Al agreed. Then when Oscar paid the bill and tipped the waitress, Al told him he’d pay for the drinks. 

“You’ll regret that,” the older man had warned. “I drink like an alcoholic sailor.”

“Its fine,” Al had reassured. Oscar drove him to work -in a beige sedan- gave him a kiss on the cheek , then sped away, tires screeching as he left the parking lot. Al blushed, holding his cheek before collecting himself and preparing for the day. He had quite a bit of work to do, commissions included.

\---


	3. Childhood, Puberty and Eggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al prepares for his second 'date.' Back in time, Oscar reflects on a relatively good day. For him, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd again. That art is coming soon, two or three days I think!

Winston Household  
1987

The purpose of this notebook is to write down my thoughts and to keep track of my progress. Anyways, let’s get to it. My ass hurts, my back hurts, and my face hurts. My dad really needs to lay off that fucking belt. I’ve been beating on that gay kid, Al or whatever. 

And today I just beat the shit out of him, I mean it was fucking amazing. That kid can take so much, it’s crazy he’s only eleven. First, I punched him down and he hit a wall, banged his nose up pretty bad. Then I kicked him in the ribs and stomach til he got purple. Last, I stomped on the side of his face, knocked out a couple teeth. And he begged and cried and screamed the whole time. It was perfect. 

When I got home, my dad told me the little brat’s parents reported me. So I got detention and I had to ‘apologize’. And my body hurts cos my damn dad ‘punished me’. Whatever. I’ll be out soon.-

Straggler’s Creek- A Party  
1988  
After Al had promised Oscar he’d do whatever he wanted, he’d been set to do a shit ton of embarrassing shit. First the dog thing, random errands during class, calling him Master in public. It was so humiliating! Now, he had him at some stupid party, full of drunk teens and he doesn’t even want to be there. But Oscar insists, so he has to stay. Speaking of Oscar, Al had barely seen him at all since they got there.

He was probably with some girl, Lord knows they love him. ‘Ooh, he plays guitar and he's a bad boy!’ Al thought the whole thing was ridiculous, but Oscar did look pretty good strumming his guitar. He sat in the shade of a willow tree, away from the crowd, hoping to avoid trouble that night. Of course, he wasn’t ever so lucky. Speak of the devil and he shall appear, Oscar stumbled his way towards him, two red cups in his hands, splashing spiked punch every where. 

“Hey kid, whaddya doin all alone? Stayin outta trouble?”

Al nods, hoping to continue to do so. “Yeah. H-hey Oscar, when are w-we goin? I k-kinda have to be-“

“Nonsense! You just got here! Its only been,” he checks his wristwatch, “two hours! There’s still much to be done!” He holds one cup out to Al, red cheeks signifying his level of intoxication.

“N-no thanks, Oscar. I’m only tw-“

Oscar's expression darkens, “Take. It. Al. Or have you forgotten who owns who?”

Al tenses up a bit before taking the offered cup. He looks up at Oscar from where he sits.

“Drink it, Al. It won’t hurt ya. Go on. Take a couple gulps,” Al does as told, “Yeah, like that. There ya go.”

Al splutters after, managing to keep the bitter and burning liquid down his throat. His eyes water and he starts hacking, wondering what was in it. He doesn’t have to think long.

“Everclear. You ever hear of it? Only a few drops in it, didn’t wanna kill you. Yet.”

“Is-isn't that moonshine!? Are you trying to!-“

He grabs Al by the front of his shirt, shaking the flustered boy violently. “Hey I don’t like your tone, fuckhead. Stop forgetting your fuckin place and enjoy yourself. I already said it was only few drops, no big deal. It’s like taking two shots of whiskey, you stupid little shit.”

“B-b-but, I don’t w-wanna g-g-g-go blind!!”

Oscar smacks him hard. “You’re not gonna go blind, you dipshit. Pay a-fuckin-ttention.”

He throws Al down, smiling at how he flinches when he looks up at him. Only a matter of time now.  
(Half an Hour Later)  
At Al’s TreeHouse

Al wasn’t sure how he got to his backyard treehouse, but decided its better than that awful party. He's glad he got out of there in the nick of time apparently, because he could hardly move a muscle. He sighs, lips vibrating loudly. Then he laughs loudly, before he’s shushed by some unknown force.

“Quiet, Al. You’re gonna wake up your parents, don’t -hic- do that. ‘s not okay.”

Oh, it’s Oscar, his helpful brain supplies. ‘Thanks, brain,’ he thinks drunkenly smiling at the wall. Wait, when did he lay down? It doesn’t matter much, his brain says again. There’s a hand on his hip, shaking him. 

“Whu- what do you want,” he slurs, all his words bleeding into eachother.

“Sh, just be quiet Al. We’re just gonna -hic- have a bit of fun. Just us two.”

Al blacks out after that.

 

Morning  
Still in the TreeHouse

Al wakes up, his mouth as dry as the desert. It feels cotton-y too, like he swallowed a bunch of fabric. He sits up too fast, head threatening to detach from his head. He groans, nausea building up as well.

He thinks he’ll be sick at this rate.

He glances around the far-too-bright shack of a house, spotting a bottle of water on the ground a few feet from him. He crawls towards it, moaning in delight when he sees the bottle of off brand ibuprofen next to it. Al pops open the cap, pouring two capsules out, downing half the water bottle with them.

He goes to lie back down, when he notices something is amiss. He's not wearing pants, and there seems to be something dried up between his legs. 

‘Not a wet dream,’ he complains, taking in the state of his underwear. Stained with erm puberty fluids, he says to himself. Yeah, just those. No big deal. 

He thinks nothing of it until the day he turns twenty seven.

 

GroveStar Apartment Complex  
Apartment Number C3  
2001

Al sighs to himself, mulling over each item of clothing in his closet, warring within himself over what to wear for his second date with Oscar. He sighs again, flopping onto his bed like a starfish. Then he hears his doorbell ring. He panics, ‘I thought it was only 7, shit why is he here?’

He rushes over to the door, already thinking up apologies for being late, when he sees who’s on the other side. Relief floods him like water in a capsized boat.

It’s only Maria. His neighbor and best friend. She raises an eyebrow at his disheveled appearance.

“Company,” she asks, a sly smirk tugging at her full lips.

Al flusters for millionth time that day, he thinks and shakes his head. “No, just getting ready.”

Dammit now she’s gonna ask- “Ooooh! Ready for what? Hot date?” She pushes her way in, leaving Al in the door way. He quickly jump starts his brain , shutting the door and following her into his bedroom.

“Hey, Maria. You can’t just go into my r-“

“So who’s the lucky guy?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, making Al get over his initial embarrassment. Exasperation replaces the previous emotion.

“Don’t be so gross, Maria.” She feigns offense, a hand over her heart. 

“You wound me, Lord Albert. Seriously, who’s the guy? I haven’t seen you in a week and suddenly there’s a new guy, I’m chopped liver and you lose the ability to get dressed.”

She gestures to his state of partial undress, clad in only a set of Betty Boop boxers.

“Fine, I’ll relent, Lady Maria. He’s just a guy from highschool. We’re going out for drinks to catch up.”

She wiggles her brows again, dancing them up and down. “Is that all? Nothing else?”

“Oh, can it, corn child. It’s just a friendly thing,” he half-lies. Its only a second date, and who even said it’s a date in the first place? It’s just old not-really-friends getting together for drinks. That’s it.

“You’re lyyyyyyiiiiiiiing,” she drawls out.

“Is this all you're here for, to harass me? Or did you actually have something important to tell me?”

She rolls here eyes, pouting up at him. “You’re no fun sometimes. Just dropped by to rape you of your eggs, I’m making Holly some omelets and we ran out. So may I have some eggs, your liege?”

He snorts and nods his head towards the door. “Go ahead, you know where the kitchen is. I’m gonna go grab a shower, see yourself out, please.”

She calls out an affirmation from the kitchen, noisily digging around in his fridge. He shakes his head and finally decides on an outfit, walking to the bathroom. 

 

\----------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos, as always are appreciated!


	4. Queens, Appointments and Domestics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oscar picks Al up, Emma plays pretend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know I'm always unbeta'd. The artwork link is in the description. Hit me up in the comments.

Emma played pretend. She played it with Queenie, her older twin sister. She played pretend about being paralyzed from the waist down, she played it when she bathed, ate, dressed and even played it with her dolls.   
Yes, she is excellent at playing pretend. At pretending.

She pretends she doesn't cry herself to sleep half of her nights, she pretends her back isn't aching, she pretends she likes Papa's chard. She also pretends she doesn't see the bruises on Papa's neck and arms and tummy. She pretends she isn't kept up at night when she hears Daddy yelling and hurting Papa. She doesn't cry when Papa does, she doesn't notice when he limps and offers only weak smiles instead of his bright grins. 

 

She plays pretend. And she plays well.  
\----  
GroveStar Apartment Complex  
2001

Oscar arrives at Al’s apartment at 8 sharp. Al finds his punctuality endearing and smiles brightly when he sees the older man has brought him his favorite caramel candies.

“Aw, Ozzy, you didn’t have to.”

Oscar raises a pointy brow at the nickname, but says nothing of it. He very obviously checks Al out, up, down, up, then down again. He can already hear what Maria would say and mentally shakes his head.

Oscar wears black bootcut jeans, brown steel-toed boots and a dark blue button down. He looks good, Al thinks. 

Al had chosen a horizontally black-striped long sleeved orange shirt and fur lined brown leather jacket, with light blue jeans and pink loafers as his attire and had even -partially- styled his strawberry blond hair.

Oscar approved.

“Shall we get this show on the road, then?” Oscar holds his arm out, in a royal fashion.

 

Al grabs it and says, “Why, of course. Our carriage awaits, I’m sure.”

They head out.

 

 

\---------

Winston-Nelson Household  
2011

 

"I can't believe you! How could you-"

CRACK

THUMP

"Don’t you dare talk back to me! You know better!"

 

"I-I'm so-so-sorry-"

THWACK

THWACK

CRACK

CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK 

Emma shivers, wishing she could block out her Papa's wailing. 

 

'Please make him stop hurting Papa' she prays, clutching her teddy, a gift from her Papa.

 

"AH! Please- Stop!! Please, Osc- AAAH!"

She shivers and flinches in time with the sounds.

CRACK shiver

THWACK flinch

CRACK shiver

THWACK flinch

 

It goes on like this for ten, twenty minutes before it stops. And then she hears it. Hears Daddy saying something. He starts yelling.

She can't understand it, but it’s scary. 

She shoots up in her bed, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Her Daddy never yelled like that. He sounds worried, which makes her worried. She crawls forward on her bed, pulls her chair close and throws herself into the chair with a loud bang, she fastens her straps, quickly secures her legs and opens up her bedroom door. She wheels into the hallway, and knocks on her parents’ bedroom door.

She hears rustling around inside, then nothing.

"Daddy?" She calls out before knocking again, her tiny fist bruising from the force she uses. "Papa? Papa are you okay?" She hears familiar weeping when she presses her ear against the door. Something else though.

"Shhh, shhh, I've got you, darling. Shh, dearest." She hears her Daddy soothing her Papa. It does nothing to soothe her. She knocks louder. "Daddy!! Open the door!"

She hears him walk towards the door loudly, then he swings it open and steps out, shutting it behind him before locking it. He looks down at her, hand on his hip, tapping and wiggling his fingers impatiently. 

"Yes, Emma? How can I help you at this ungodly hour?"

"I heard-"

"No you didn't, Emma. You're just dreaming again from the funny pills, remember?" He speaks in a sweet, condescending tone that she usually hates, but right now it's comforting. "Papa is sleeping, he had one of his fits again. You remember those, don't you, sweetest? Papa is feeling unwell and you're pounding on the door. Would you like me to tuck you in, read you a bedtime story?"

She suddenly feels very silly, getting out of bed at two am, pounding on her parents' door, as if her Daddy would ever hurt her Papa. That badly. She nods meekly, letting him push her back into her bedroom.

He unstraps her, pulls her legs out of the security peddles and lays her in bed. She smiles, it's rare he tucks her in, much less reads her a story. He tucks her in, making sure to put their teddy under her arm before fastening the blankets and sheets. 

"What story would you like to hear, sweet pea?"

She smiles again, points to a gold spined book that's worn far beyond its years.

"One of the Grimm Stories," she says, a squeal in her voice.

He nods, begins reading and she hardly hears a thing. She drifts off to sleep in less than a minute. He notices her sleeping, kisses her forehead, puts the book back on the shelf and walks out of her room.

 

\------------

 

Dear Diary, 2003  
Oscar hurts me so much now. I sometimes think he’s going to kill me. And now he’s kidnapped my cousin and he's forcing her to carry our children. I think I’ll be sick whenever I see her. We’ve bought -No he- bought a new house, out in the countryside. It’s a mansion, with a cemetery and playground and the whole nine yards, everything someone could ask for. Our nearest neighbor is twelve miles away and the school is fifteen miles away. He likes it here, so I do as well. I’m rambling on and oh Oscar hates that and he…//=/ he hurt me really bad.

He bent my finger both ways all the way and it hurt so bad and he wouldn’t stop bending. My finger doesn’t work anymore, so it just dangles there. He said he was gonna put in the blender but I begged him not to, said please don’t do it. Told him I’d give him anything. But he just punched me really hard and said I already have. He stuck my hair in instead, but it only pulled it and cut it a bit.

I wish he would stop acting this way. I used to think he loves me.-

Winston-Nelson Household  
2011  
Al groans, sitting in his pink bathwater, trying to forget why it’s pink. He clutches his head, brushes a large lump of hard flesh and thinks better of it. He lets his hand drop into the water, the feeling of his hand hitting the hard porcelain of the tub nothing in comparison to the aches and pains his beloved husband had inflicted onto him. 

A sob rips its way from his throat when he thinks about all the injuries his husband has gifted him with over the years. He shakes his head, now sobbing uncontrollably, head buried in his arms.

“Well isn’t this a welcome sight. I almost thought you died, there Al.” He steps closer, sitting on the edge of the tub, dangling his -nude- legs into the tub. He looks concerned, which makes Al’s heart nearly burst. ‘He does care. See?’ He massages Al’s shoulder, gets into the tub and turns him around so they’re Oscar's front to Al’s back. Sort of like vertical spooning.

It all makes Al feel rather woozy. (He supposes emotional whiplash and mood-swings will do that)

“I’m upset that you’re so injured, dearest. But you really shouldn’t provoke me like that.” He kisses behind his ear, then trails his way all over Al’s neck and shoulders and back. It’s very reminiscent of their honeymoon, Al thinks. “Maybe this will remind you to be more careful, yeah?”

“Y-y-y-y-y-Yes-yess-yessir. I’ll b-buh-be more care-care-careful, Master.”

Oscar snorts. “Is your memory going, idiot? I’m not master right now. And relax, your stammer is irritating me right now.”

This makes his heart hammer in his chest. ‘Oh god, please don’t hurt me again not again I can’t can’t can't-‘

“You still in there, birdy? I don’t like being ignored.

Al passes out.

 

When he wakes up, he’s bundled up in their bed, under his favorite blanket -Orange tartan- and Oscar is nowhere to be seen. This relieves him, he didn’t want to deal with the other man’s mocking and jeering so early in the morning. He sits up, stretches and yawns, morning breath a mix of blood and spit.

It’s not so bad.

\-------------

Once he’s showered and dressed for the day -and he’s got make up on to cover the marks on his face, it works fairly well besides the lump on his cheek- he heads to Emma’s room to see if she’s up yet.

He knocks, hears no answer and walks in. 

‘That’s strange, she doesn’t usually get up this early, much less out of bed.’

He finds Queenie not in her room, but in the kitchen, attempting to reach the ice cream in the back of the freezer. 

“Queenie Ruth, no ice cream for breakfast, you know that. Now get out of the freezer.”

She jumps out, sour expression clouding her features. “Why are you always home?”

Al pretends her obvious preference for Oscar isn’t painful, but it is.

He wants to say ‘Because he won’t let me leave the house without him because he is a possessive control freak’ instead he says, “Because Daddy has a very important job, and he likes to use the money from that to buy you girls lots of toys and presents.” 

She frowns but chambers into a chair that’s pulled into the kitchen island.

He smiles his brightest smile and asks, “What do you want for breakfast, poppet? I’ll make you anything you want.” 

He expects a smile and a ‘PANCAKES!’ or something of the like, but she instead asks,

“What happened to your face, Papa?” He pretends he doesn’t notice the same malicious smile her other father has on her sweet fat face. “Did Daddy punish you?”

“Of course, not,” he lies. “I got into a fight with a flying box of cereal. And I banished it, but it got me pretty good too. Now what do you want for breakfast?”

“Strawberry French Toast!” She yells, bouncing excitedly in her seat.

He grins at her enthusiasm, then sets off to make her breakfast.

\------  
Once he’s got the toast frying in the pan, he asks where her sister is.

“Oh, she’s at the doctor's. I heard Daddy talking about it. Why?”

“I just couldn't find her, that’s all. Toast is almost done.”

He serves the dripping crisps onto a paper towel, draining them of their oil. He then puts them on her plate, sifts powdered sugar on top, then some sliced strawberries and strawberry jam. He kisses his daughter’s head then tells her to eat up while he drinks his coffee. It’s a lovely and slow morning, the kind Al has loved since he was a child.

That is, until he remembers Emma doesn’t have a Doctor’s appointment today.


	5. Date no 2 and a Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birthday parties, underage drinking, what more could you ask for?
> 
> Also, rating change what what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know it's unbeta'd.
> 
> New Albert art soon. And Oscar, but his is a bit later.

O’Toole’s Old Pub  
2001

Oscar had always been a rough around the edges kind of guy, so Al was hardly surprised when he drove up to a gritty looking pub, actually appreciating the fact that Oscar hadn’t completely changed. Al would be lying if he said the ‘bad boy’ persona didn’t affect him, Oscar's in particular. 

Upon further inspection he noticed that the pub had a small dilapidated sign that read:

ESTABLISHED 1896

Ah, so that explained it. You don’t come out of two world wars looking quite the same, he guessed. The windows were dirty with old smoke, the actual brick building had obviously had a few parts of the wall taken out and replaced with new brick in various shades and colors. Al was charmed.

They both walked up to the fine establishment, Al holding the door open for Oscar, to which he received a ‘Why, thank you kind sir’. It brought a smile to his face to see they could joke around like proper adults, instead of bullying each other physically and verbally.

Oscar apparently was a regular here as well. The barmaid immediately lit up upon seeing him, urging him to ‘get his ass over there and introduce her to his friend.’ This part is always awkward, Al finds. Introducing your date to a not so accepting world, maybe Oscar would say they’re just friends? It’s only a half-lie afterall, no harm in it. 

He finds himself approaching the well scrubbed counter, surprised at the general cleanliness inside of the establishment in comparison to its grimy exterior. Not to say it’s not grimy inside, but far less so. He pulls up at a stool, intent on making his introduction short, yet polite. Even after all these years, he still retained some social anxiety around people, he’s just glad he’s pretty much kicked his stammer.

Before he can make said intro, he’s cut off by -Dolores, the nametag stitched on her blouse reads- the bartender. “Is he another one of your conquests, Oscar?”

Oscar gets a tiny bit pink in the cheeks and his ears redden and twitch as well. ‘Cute,’ Al thinks.

“Not a conquest, Dolly, more of a, how you say,” he glances at Al, “life partner?”

Dolores laughs, a raspy, croak of a laugh, slaps his arm. “Suuuuure he is, like I’ve not heard that before.” It’s only then Al notices she has a bit of a Dublin accent, faded by years of living in the states.

Al stiffens a bit, hoping he isn’t just a notch in the belt, he has always gotten far too attached, far too quickly. It gets quite out of hand at times, the other person expecting a quick hookup while he’s searching for a possible soulmate. People find it quirky and cute, but he personally finds it irritating. He’s never been a good judge of character, opting to follow his heart instead.

Oscar nudges the old woman, ordering a bottle of scotch and some barbecue wings. He looks to Al, who asks for a simple pint of beer, light, and a steak sandwich. He gets intoxicated too easily to drink hard liquor. 

Oscar leaves his barstool, opting for a booth instead, Al following closely behind. He’s shocked and relieved that Dolores has no problem with homosexuality, thankful she hadn’t spoken of it too loudly either. Nothing worse than intolerant drunks, trying to pick a fight.

Oscar slides a hand under the table, reaching for Al’s.

He takes it.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Winston Household  
September 3rd 2003

Oscar has thrown Al a birthday party, inviting a handful of people, knowing his lover's people anxiety all too well. He’d beamed at the prospect of a party, having not seen his friends in over nine months now.

That’s new parenthood for ya, he thinks. He's been enraptured by his two daughters to think of anything else, plus there’s the fact that, well, Oscar doesn’t let him have friends over, or even leave the house without him. Nonetheless, he had been far too sucked into his daughters’ little lives, a sort of bubble around them. 

Queenie Ruth Winston had been born on August 16th 2003, her twin sister Emma Louise Nelson born the following day, via c-section after she hadn’t popped out within a certain time limit. He couldn’t remember how long he had sat in those plastic blue chairs, waiting to see if his second daughter would pull through. Hours, he knew, although his memory was awful recently. 

Ever since he learned that their -unwilling- surrogate, Nicole had been carrying twins, he had immediately felt a connection to the smaller baby; his Emma. He doesn’t believe in, or support favoritism, but he can’t deny his strong attachment to his fragile daughter. Perhaps it’s a sort of empathetic thing, he himself helpless at the hands of his lover. ‘No need for those kind of thoughts,’ Al chastises himself. Oscar hates that sort of thing, negativity from his ‘little birdy’.

Back to the party, he thinks, exiting the ground floor bathroom. Oscar had even invited Maria, he smiled at the thought of his grouchy lover chatting with sunshine exuding Maria. She probably talked his ear off.

He sees Maria, dancing with her new girlfriend, Dahlia he thinks her name is. It’s a shame she had ended it with Holly, her previous flame, he had rather liked Holly.

“drops of Everclear,” he overheads from Oscar, the phrase oddly familiar. Then he remembers the party back in 1988, how Oscar had forced him to drink Everclear spiked punch, assuring him it was only as strong as two shots of whiskey. His headache in the morning had spit at that phrase, tearing young Al’s in two. He had always wondered what had transpired that night, waking with semen stained jeans in his seldom used childhood treehouse.

Then he remembers.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Night of the Party- Inside the TreeHouse  
1988

Al couldn’t remember walking home with the older boy, having had far too much to drink. He remembers accepting another cup of punch from some spiky haired stranger, but that’s about it.

Now, he's lying on his side, the other boy -Oscar?- kissing the back of his neck sloppily, leaving drunk kisses everywhere, wet and biting. It makes things rather uncomfortable in the pants department.

Oscar has both their pants down, grinding his ‘thing’ -as Al refers to it- between the younger boy’s thighs, his hand around Al’s waste, giving him the best hand job he’s ever received in his young life. Well, the only hand job. Still, it’s amazing and Al hopes Oscar doesn’t tell anyone, then thinks that Oscar wouldn’t dare tell, he’s doing it too. It’s sloppy and messy and sticky and amazing, as young trysts are.

He finishes abruptly, Oscar following him soon after. Oscar wipes his hand on Al’s shorts, then hugs him close, falling asleep.

Al stays up for a few minutes after, soft snores hitting the back of his neck with hot puffs of breath, a dopey smile on his face.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
’Toole’s Old Pub  
2001

Oscar had suggested jello shots -which Al appreciated because he really doesn’t like the taste of liquor- and had egged him on, prompting him to drink three of the damn things in quick succesion. He felt adequately smashed, yet continued to drink when prompted -oh, two more shots, then- and then he descended into a mumbling, giggling, drunken mess. He'd look back on this and cringe at himself, that he was sure of.

Now, however. Now he was in Oscar’s lap, pawing at him like a deranged dog whore, as Maria would put it, planting sloppy kisses -reminiscent of the ones Oscar gave him many years ago- all over the older man. Who by the way, hardly seemed fazed by the amount of alcohol he had consumed, cheeks tinged a barely noticeable pink, in comparison to Albert’s full drunken flush.

He hardly even noticed as he was guided out of the other man's lap, forced to stand until he nearly lost his balance and fell. Allow me, the narrator to rephrase; he was stood up, then he fell and was caught. Brilliant. Oscar chuckled at his clumsy partner, paying the full tab -despite Al’s earlier promise of paying- and waving goodnight to Dolores. 

Then, Al suddenly regained a small burst of strength, flailing away from Oscar to grab onto a public trash can and suddenly puke up the contents of his stomach.

Oscar laughed, holding his strawberry blond accomplice’s curls away from his face.

Al grimaced, wiped his mouth and stepped away from the now thoroughly soiled trash can -though it had hardly been the first time it had been puked in, it was placed there for a reason-. 

Oscar wiped his eyes, having found this ordeal so terribly humorous it brought tears to his ash colored eyes. “I suppose you forgot one of the golden rules of alcohol consumption, yeah?”

‘How in the fuck is he even speaking?” Al thought.

“Wh-whut rule is *burp* that?”

“Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear. Beer before liquor, get sick much quicker.”

Al blinks. Once. Twice. 

Having noticed his companion seemingly hadn’t understood him, Oscar in a rare act of kindness, chose to repeat himself. “Liqu-“

“N-nooooo, I g-got it, I’d just never heard that one before. Yanno I don’t drink much.” He hiccups, a burp following shortly after.

“Clearly. Come on, I’ll walk you home.” Dolores had confiscated his keys after his third shot. Drunk or not, no car crashes on her conscience, thank you.

The whore puppy returns, hugging Oscar and planting more wet -this time vomit flavored- kisses on the black haired gentleman's neck and cheek. “C’mon, Ossy, take me to your place. We can have some fun, I promise.”  
“It’s a tempting offer, truly, but I have work in the morning and I assume you do as well. It’s best to stick to our respective schedules for the time being. Come on, now. Help me remember where you live…”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Uuuuuuugggghhhh,” Al groans, sun in his eyes, hangover pounding at his skull in a familiar rhythm. The rhythm being the anthem of five too many shots. He glares at his alarm clock, chucks it a the wall after quickly glancing at the time. 10:27 AM

Shit, he was gonna miss work. He ignored his headache, -for the time being- downed two aspirins and threw on some work appropriate clothes. Those being khakis and a navy polo shirt, an outfit he loathed. He brushed his teeth, grimacing at his appearance in the mirror and at the rancid taste in his mouth. 

His hair was a tangled mess, his eyes were surrounded by dark circles and he couldn’t really bring himself to care. 

Grabbing a pop tart from the kitchen, he rushes out the door, barely catching the bus to work.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Oscar, in the meanwhile was having a perfectly average morning. With an added pep in his step, of course. Al had that effect on him, he supposed.

And work was fantastic today, his newest victim was especially sensitive to his antics.

He grinned.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated, also tell me if you've heard of that drinking rule. It is one I live by.


	6. Those will kill ya, ya know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in time, Forward in the future. ^_^ Gimme some damn comments, on art, writing, anything! And kudos. Pwease? I'll give you a cookie. ^_^

2011

 

Al doesn't know how he did it, but he knows, he  _knows_ that his- no not even- that  ** _monster_** killed his little girl. A car accident they said. Her frail body couldn't handle the impact, they were rear ended.

 

"We're very sorry for your loss. Your husband is lucky he's alive."

 

Oh, he  _is_ lucky, Al thinks. Lucky he hasn't been caught. Al vowed on the day he watched his baby girl get lowered into the ground he'd make sure Oscar received his come-uppance.

 

* * *

1988

School

 

Al walks up to Oscar during lunch, which was a bad idea he knew, he just needed to speak to the other boy. He taps his shoulder, crouching in his spot under the bleachers. Oscar whirls away, cigarette dangling from his lips.

 

He takes out his cigarette, holding it between his forefinger, middle finger and thumb. "What do you want, birdbrain?"

 

"Oh, uh s-s-s-sorry, Ossssscar. I just wa-wanted to kn-kn-kn-" Oscar snaps his fingers, gesturing for him to spit it out already.

 

"I-I wanted to know -dragging out the oh sound- if I wa-was d-done owi-owing you f-favors now."

 

"Why would that even come up in your excuse of a brain? Did I  _say_ you were done owing me? No? Figure it out yourself, shithead. Now run off, I'm trying to smoke in peace here." Al perks up at that, now noticing the cigarette burning out between Oscar's calloused fingers. He never had been very perceptive, if at all.

 

"C-can I have o-one? My momm-" he cuts himself off, not daring to refer to his mother as 'mommy' in public. "My mom's doesn't l-let me have a-any of those." He awkwardly cranes his neck down, looking into Oscar's eyes, to attempt to know what the shorter boy was thinking.

 

"Are you _trying_ to die, birdy?"

 

Al notices his usual malice doesn't reach his voice at all, nor his eyes. He smiles internally at that. "No, not tr-trying to die, just w-wanna try 'em. Please?"

 

Oscar scowls, yanks one out of his pack and hands it to the much younger boy. "Take it."

 

"B-but it's not lit."

 

"Do I gotta do  _everything_ for your dumb ass?" He takes the fresh cancer stick into his mouth, lights it up and passes it up to Al.

 

Al smiles, takes the offered cigarette, slips it between his lips and inhales very deeply. Then immediately coughs, spitting the cigarette out and holds his throat, wheezing.

 

"Gosh, those are  _awful._ Why do people smoke these?"

 

Oscar picks up the fallen smoke and slips it between his lips, discarding the now burnt out cigarette onto the ground. He stomps it out, glaring up at Albert.

 

Al doesn't admit aloud, but the effect is slightly ruined by the height advantage he has over the black haired student. Not by much though.

 

"Yknow these cost money, you can't just throw 'em into the mud." Al winces, but notices his eyes are smiling. "Fuckin' brat." There's a small smile on his lips, matching his grey eyes.

 

Al smiles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if its a bit filler-y, I don't trust this internet connection.


	7. Fast Lane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the Present. Al and Oscar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I've been sick. Hope you enjoy this. ^_^

2001

Al woke up from his afternoon nap, having heard the beeping notification of a text. He hurriedly swipes it from his bedside table, practically aching for the screen to read:

From: Oscar  
Of course, he was disappointed. The notification was simply a reminder of the painting that was due on Saturday, which was three days away and he was nowhere near finished with it. He sighed, runs a hand over his face, yawning and stretching as he sat up and got out of bed. 

‘Better get to it now, then.’

He relieves himself in the bathroom, showers, brushes his hair, gets dressed in some throwaway clothes and gets to his studio. Meaning his spare bedroom that had been cleared out and filled to the brim with his pieces and art supplies.

Al smiles as he enters; it had taken years to get this far, and he knew he’d be getting even further if he could finish the piece for Saturday; a sculpture of this old woman’s deceased husband, made entirely of old photos and mementos. He thought it was very sweet and sentimental, gushing when he thought of his soulmate, maybe Oscar doing that when his own time came.

Landscapes, portraits and studies littered his walls, an all at once colorful and dark cacophony of paint, pastels and charcoals, giving the room a fresh breath of air, that many rooms in Al’s apartment lacked.

He walked over to the collection of photographs that he was sculpting into a near exact replica of Mrs Jackson's husband’s face.

He picked up a family photo and set to work.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After four hours of sculpting, give or take, Al had just finished scrubbing the glue and various other substances from his hands, when he heard a knock at the door. He rinses his hands again, the knocking growing more persistent. He flicks his wrists, ridding his hands of excess water, then towels them off.

*KNOCK KNOCK*

“Okay, Maria I’m coming!”

He walks through the hallway, taking his time, if Maria wanted to be so impatient then she'd have to wait a bit longer.

*BANG BANG BANG*

“Oh, Christ! Would you wait a second!?” Al jogs to the door, flinging it open, scowl on his face. 

It disappears when he registers the person at the door, Oscar.

And his face is pretty banged up. “Oh, Oscar!” He herds him in quickly, closing and locking the door behind him as he follows behind him. “If I’d known it was you, I wouldn’t have taken as long. What happened to your face,” he questions, a sort of coo in his voice.

 

“Got jumped. And I appreciate the fact that you would rush to the door for me.” A small smile tugs at Oscar’s lips, making Al’s heart gush in a way it hadn’t since he was a teen.

 

“Well, I’m glad you came here. Here, give me a second.” He runs to the bathroom, grabs a rag and various other medical supplies, wets the rag with hot water, then rushes back to the living room where he left his black-haired beau.

He sets the supplies -besides the rag- on the sofa, then presses the hot rag to Oscar's face, a bit too eagerly, eliciting a hiss from the older man. 

“Oh, sorry, Ozzy. Accident. Here, I’ll be more careful.” He tenderly brushes the cloth against the various cuts and bruises that are scattered across Oscar's face. 

Oscar hisses again, but keeps still, letting his strawberry lover clean, then disinfect his injuries.

“I didn’t know you were such a big baby about a couple scratches,” he teases lightly, planting bandaids on the older man's face. 

 

“Shut it, you,” Oscar pouts, before tackling Al onto his back. He peppers the redhead with kisses, tickling his sides as he ravages the squealing man.

 

“Oi! Stop it-eeeh-Oscar! I’m gonna pee,” he whines.

 

Oscar raises a brow at this, then continues tickling his gangly sofa mate with renewed vigor, grin stretched across his torn lips. 

“Ah! Ozzy, stop- please stop!” Al kicks his legs, attempting to escape his lover’s inescapable grip. “I’m seriously gonna-eeeeek!-pee!”

 

Oscar sighs, finally gives Al an ounce of mercy and stops tickling him. He does, however begin sucking his neck and groping the softest parts of the strawberry blonde, his ass, his hips and his stomach, a bit of paunch on his belly.

 

“Oh, Oscar, what are you- ohhh, now? Are you ready for this?”

Oscar hums, sucks a hickey into Al’s neck and squeezes his bottom harder.

 

“O-Oscar, how do you wanna -mmmmm- do this?”

Oscar doesn’t answer, simply slips his hand past the waistband of Al’s sweatpants and grips his cock. Al yipes, tugs Oscar’s head up closer to him and kisses him feverishly, desperately humping into his lover’s hand. Al clung to Oscar as the older man jerked him off, working him over into an oblivion.

Before he had any say in it, he was coming and boy, that was quick, he thought. Oscar shook him off a bit, like you’d do after you took a piss, then he tucked Al back into his pants.

Al reached for his black-haired partner's groin but was quickly batted away.

“What is it, Ozzy?” 

 

“No need for that.” He kisses Al, forcing his tongue into the taller man's mouth, tasting every corner of his hot orifice.

“Mmmm,” Al pushes him away, gently breaking the kiss. “Are you staying the night?”

 

Oscar seemed to consider it before quickly responding, “Yeah, why not?”

Al grins, feeling as though his happy ending might happen after all. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	8. Night Runs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep over

Nelson Household  
1988

Dear Diary,  
Dad's been at the bottle again, and we both know what THAT means. I hate alcohol, I hate the smell and I hate what it does to people. He hit mom the other night, and then me and he tried to hurt Sally, but I didn’t let him touch her. It sucks being bullied in and out of school, but at least I have Juniper. We’ve been studying together and hanging out lately. But that'll probably come to an end soon too. 

Oscar doesn’t like me having friends, he says it makes me independent. He’s mean, but at least he’s sort of cute, ugh what am I even saying? He beats me up the most, well besides…..bye diary.  
\---------

GroveStar Apts  
2001

“Well, I’ve only got one bedroom, so one of us is gonna have to take the couch, but it’s pretty comfy so-“

“You know, Al,” he drawls out, smile on his face. “We ARE dating, so we could just share the bed.”

Al flusters intensely, Oscar smirking as he continues. “If that’s okay with you, that is.” Al ducks his head down and nods, conforming his assent. 

“Good. Then let’s head to the bedroom, I’m sure you’re exhausted. And my being here can’t have helped with that.”

They make their way to Al’s bedroom, the owner of said bedroom blushing furiously at the prospect of sharing a bed with Oscar, Oscar of all people. He never dreamed this day would come.

But it has, obviously, he thinks as he helps set up the bedding, exchanging his smaller blankets for larger ones, so both he and Oscar can fit under them comfortably. Once the bedding is finished, he pats the mattress, satisfied with his work.

“So, do you need pajamas or something? I’m sure I’ve got some ones that can fit you, or maybe some of Robert's might fit you.”

Al doesn’t miss Oscar's face darkening at the last bit of his sentence, hoping it’s his imagination. 

It’s not of course.

“Who is Robert,” he asks, irritation coloring his features.

“Nobody, just my ex,” Al replies, hoping he can just shrug this off. “It’s not a big deal, right?”

Oscar seems to go blank for a moment, then smiles as if nothing happened. “No. No of course not. I was just thinking of another Robert I knew, that’s all.”

Al nods. “Yeah, well like I said,” He points to the closet and dresser, “there should be clothes in there, and uh, maybe a toothbrush and if not you can borrow mine.” He smiles and goes to the adjoining bathroom that he labels his master bath, despite it’s size. 

It’s rather cramped, but it’s clean and in working order. He washes his face then settles into his nightly routine, not noticing when Oscar enters. 

Until he grabs his waist from behind, that is. Al yipes, jumps a foot in the air, Oscar letting go of him immediately. 

Al turns around, bright red and pouting. “You scared the hell outta me, you dick,” he complains. 

Oscar smirks, holding back laughter. “Gee, Albert. I only came to brush my teeth, lower your guns.”

“Oh, shut up, jerk.” He resumes his routine, this time offering Oscar some sink and counter space as well.

Oscar squirts some of the cinnamon flavored toothpaste onto a bright pink toothbrush, then sets to cleaning his teeth. They stand side by side, in companionable silence, not much sound in the room except for the scratching sounds of teeth being brushed and Al putting a variety of creams onto his face.

“I, uh, I see your *spit* taste in colors hasn't changed much since school,” Oscar says, gesturing to the multiple pink and purple colored items in the bathroom, including a fuzzy pink toilet cover and a lilac shower curtain, with purple and pink striped window curtains.

Al smiles, “You remember that?”

Oscar rinses his mouth out with water, then wipes it with the back of his hand. “How could I not remember? Your pink loafers or your purple sneakers and all your different sweaters, God it was crazy how much pink and purple you wore. They’re good colors on you, though.”

Al nods, finishes up his routine and rinses his mouth as well. “Alright then, bed, yeah?”

“Yes,” Oscar responds, following Al to the large blue, green and purple bed. He pulls back the covers and gestures for Al to get under them. “After you, my liege.”

Al grins, snuggles under them instantly. “Why thank you, squire.”

Oscar gently pushes Al’s shoulder, then strips out of his clothes, preparing for bed, down to his boxers, which were plain black. He crawls in next to Al and wraps an arm around his waist, in a very tight spoon.

“Night, strawberry boy.”

“Goodnight, Oscar.”

That night Al had nightmares about a inky black monster chasing him, eating bits of him, no matter how fast he ran.

Oscar dreamt a pleasant dreamless sleep.  
\------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New art in the description and also here
> 
> https://cartmanyaoi.deviantart.com/art/Highschool-Albert-Nelson-727490828?ga_submit_new=10%3A1516901598


	9. This Morning Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life, more like a morning actually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> Also, comment and kudos please!

Nelson-Winston Household  
2010

BEEP BEEP 5:00 AM

Click

Al turns off his not quite blaring alarm clock before it can disturb Oscar, and swings himself out of bed. He wipes at his eyes, blearily blinking as he makes his way to the master bathroom, clicking on the light as he enters. He relieves himself, washes his hands, nearly forgets to flush the toilet, then brushes his teeth. As he brushes, he reaches into the drawer to the left of him, pulls out his watch, a leather one Oscar had bought him and checks the time before securing it onto his wrist.

5:11 AM

Al finishes up with his teeth, puts away his toothbrush, brushes his hair and washes his face. After doing that he secures it into a small bun, then makes his way downstairs. 

5:25 AM, the wall clock says.

‘Good, I’m on time,’ Al thinks as he gets to cooking breakfast for his family. Oscar has said he has a surprise for all of them, so wanted to prepare his husband’s favorite breakfast; Sunnyside Up Eggs, crispy bacon, biscuits and freshly squeezed orange juice.

He sets to work, and once the biscuits are in the oven, checks the time.

5:37 AM

He grins, right on time today. He squeezes the rest of the juice out, transfers it from the juicer to a flower covered pitcher -a baby shower gift from Maria- and sticks it into the fridge. With the main time consumers out of the way, he heads back upstairs to get ready for the day.

Once finished with dressing -a black striped long sleeved green thermal and grey jeans with his yellow loafers- and styling his hair, he check the time on his watch.

6:07 AM

He walks over to the bed and gently shakes his husband awake, “Get up, Ozzy. It’s six o’ seven.”

Oscar groans once to be left to sleep, before signaling his resistance with a groggily rasp, “I’m up, I’m up.”

Al smiles once his husband starts to get ready, then rushes to wake up his daughters. He knocks on Queenie’s door, knowing she’s already awake from the light shining underneath the door.

“Be downstairs in fifteen minutes, love.”

He waits a moment, then, “Okay, Papa! G’ morning!”

He grins, then shouts back, “Good morning, sweet girl!”

Al comes upon Emma's door, her name written in turquoise glitter font in the center of it. He opens it slowly, in case she’s already awake, the light is on, but some nights she’ll turn it on before bed.

He enters the room and sees her sleeping soundly, arm curled snug around her teddy. It’s almost too precious for Al to interrupt. Still, he must. School starts in an hour after all. He gently shakes her awake, “Emma, wakey wakey, eggs and bacy.”

She groans, but sits up much faster than her other father. She rubs her eyes, crawls to the edge of her bed and waits for him to bring her her wheelchair. He does so, lifting her small body up into it, then adjusting her.

“Comfy?”

She beams down at him, rubbing her eyes more. “Yup!”

She rubs her eyes some more until told not to by her papa.

He straps her in, then takes her to the small, shuttered elevator left over from the early twentieth century, hits down and take her to the kitchen. Once she’s seated, in her wheelchair at the breakfast table, he checks the clock.

6:28 AM

‘Queenie still isn’t down here,’ he thinks. He ignores it, checks on the biscuits -they’d nearly done-, and gets some bacon on his griddle. While they sizzle away, he cracks some eggs into an oversized skillet, bastes them with butter -so they cook completely- and waits for the rest of the food to finish cooking.

6:39 AM

Queenie’s thundering footsteps can be heard, then she skids into the kitchen, nearly knocking into her sister.

“Whoa there, little lady. You are about ten minutes late, and what have I said about running inside?” Al cocks his hand on his hip, and gives his best stern parental expression. It doesn't last long before all three of them start cracking up, only stopping when they’ve run out of breath.

Al wipes his eye, “Queenie, hon, you’ve got so much energy, go get your daddy for me.”

She pouts but runs upstairs, eager to get her daddy downstairs. 

“So, Emms how’s your morning?” He regards his -secretly favorite- child with interest.

Emma yawns -adorably, in her papa’s opinion- and fiddles with her twin braids that Al had put in before she went to bed. “’s fine, Papa. How’s yours?”

He squeezes one of her plump baby cheeks. “Perfectly.”

Oscar then enters, brow quirked in paternal amusement. “Good morning Emma, husband,” he says, the word husband sounding a bit suggestive with the emphasis the older man places on it.

“Morning daddy,” Queenie and Emma shout in unison.

“Morning, love,” Al says, wrapping his arms around the shorter man, before guiding him and Queenine to their respective seats at the table of breakfast. He takes the several sunnied eggs and slides them onto five plates, along with bacon and a fluffy biscuit for each of them.

“Queenie, be a doll and get that fresh O.J., would you,” Oscar asks, prompting a ‘How did you know,’ from Al, which he only answered with a smug smile.

After serving breakfast, he eats with his family before kissing his husband goodbye and rushing the kids off to school -they'd be a tad late, oops- , then going home to go over his errands and to do list for the day.

He checks the time.

7:37 AM

 

“Maybe I’ll start on that book,’ he thinks as he brings his cousin her food, whistling as he walks to her prison/bedroom. ‘Or maybe pick out baby names,’ he thinks, eyeing up her pregnant stomach.

She is silent as he feeds her, comatose in every sense of the word almost, but still not quite. Nicole is dead inside, a shell remaining and he can hardly care. Because as he spoons pureed breakfast into his cousin's mouth, all he can think is

'My life is perfect.'


	10. Not So Holly Jolly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shah aha you'll have to see

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bigger chapter because I'm taking a bit of a break, not a big one, don't worry, just a bit of a longer wait for an update. Maybe. I'm just saying just in case. ^_^

1988

“Y’know Al, in a few months, I’ll be in college. Or somewhere else, what the hell ever. Do you know what’ll happen to you while I'm away?” Juniper says, nursing a bottle of beer. They’re sitting next to each other on a swing set at the town's public playground.

“What?” Al asks, lazily brushing his feet against the ground as he swings.

“Well, you'll probably get bullied by that asshat, Oscar. And I won’t be here to help.”

“Awwww no, I’ll be fine. Oscar ain't all that bad anyways. He’s been pretty cool lately.”

“Are you some kind of stupid,” Juniper asks, clearly taking offense to Al’s apparent defense for his bully.

“No, he’s just sort of misunderstood, or whatever. His dad’s a real dickwad, and he just needs a friend.”

“Whatever. Don’t come crying to me when he beats your ass.”

“Fine. I won't.” Al furrows his brow, slipping off his swing and marching back towards his house.

“Come on, I don’t mean it,” Juniper yells.

Al lifts his arms up and flips him off while at the same pace, not looking back once.

 

\------------------------------------------  
December, 2002

“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,” the voice of the late great Nat King Cole sings, “Jack Frost nipping at your nose,” Nicole sings along, crooning along in her deep raspy pitch.

The holiday season was her very favorite season, she absolutely adore it, had ever since she was a little girl. She dances to the sweet melody of ‘The Christmas Song’, shaking her hips while she decorates her tree. 

‘Nobody helping this year, but me,’ she thinks, though she isn’t too bothered by that. She had been to rehab seven times, her parents paying for her various recoveries and when they died, she finally stayed clean. Now, she had been sober for six and a half months -and has the chips to prove it- and decided it was time to celebrate. 

Nicole was just finishing up with the tinsel, saving the star for Christmas Eve, when her phone started ringing. 

“Hang on, hang on,” she rasps, as if the person on the other line can hear. She picks it up off, puts her ear to the receive and says, “Hello? Who is this?”

“Ah! Nicole, right? It’s Oscar.” It’s a man’s voice, Oscar’s voice, but she has no idea who he is.

“I’m sorry I don’t know an Oscar.”

“Oscar Winston, your cousin Al’s partner.”

“Oh, right Al. The gay one. Yeah, how is he, gonna be having a merry Christmas?”

“Yeah, you could say we are.” Oh romantic partners, her brain supplies. “Listen, we were wondering if you’d like to come over for Christmas dinner.”

Her tree and decorations, she thinks. “No I've got plans, but thanks for offering.”

“What, all by yourself? Just stop by, at least. It’s gotta be hard, living all alone in that big old house. Especially when you've only been sober for six months.”

‘Oh, fuck you asshole.’

“What the hell man!? I’m perfectly fine, thanks. Tell Al he should get a new boy toy, instead of some bitter fucking cunt. Bye.”

She hangs up with a loud, resounding click.

God, seriously fuck that dude, she thinks as she bakes her Christmas cookies.

\-------

Two hours later

RING RING

Nicole ignores it, too sated and full from her -not spiked, sobriety wins again- eggnog and pizza.

RING RING

“Persistent, huh?” She says aloud to herself.

RING RING

She sighs dramatically, heaves herself up off of the couch in her parents’ -no, her- living room and answers the still ringing phone.

“Nicole Nelson, who is this?”

“Oh good! Its finally y-you.” His voice is familiar, but her groggy mind can’t seem to place it.

“Who are you again?” Her tone comes out more bitchy than intended but the person on the other receiving end of the line either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.

“Oh! It’s, uh, *very quietly* pl-please I am- oh sorry, Nicole its me! Albert, your cousin!”

‘Probably apologizing for his love then,’ she thinks.

“Hey, Al how ya been?”

“W-well, thanks. I hope you’re well too, I h-heard about your, uh, parents. I’m apologizing about Oscar's b-behavior earlier today, h-he’s uh, very cranky during the, the holidays. Please, would you, uh, would you come over b-before Chr-Christmas then?”

How could she say no to that? “Of course I can, I was just a bit cranky myself,” which isn’t very true but whatever. “How about the twentieth?”

Al practically sighs in relief. “W-wonderful! I’ll see you then.”

“Alright, give me your address.”

He does so, her writing it down on a sticky note as he recites it, then she hangs up, rushing back to the oh so soft couch so she can fall asleep.  
\------------------------------------  
Two hours earlier, post first conversation 

“That fucking bitch! Who the hell does she think she is!?” Al flinches as Oscar rants about how rude his cousin was over the phone.

“Sh-she pr-pr-probab-“

“Oh, would you just shut the hell up. I can’t stand how you can’t even fucking speak properly! If you can’t get it out, then be quiet!”

Al nods frantically, cowering away before sneaking out of the room. 

“Hey! Where do you think you're going,” Oscar asks, stepping towards the younger man.

“No-nowhere, Ozzy.” He himself steps back, wishing to distance himself as far away from the other man as possible.

“Well get back in here, stupid. Lie down with me,” he pats the spot next to him on the couch.

And he sounds so much like his old Oscar, Al can barely resist.

He can’t resist.

He rushes towards his beau, nearly tripping over his own clumsy feet. “Oh, Ozzy!”

He’s brutally shoved away.

“Al! Al would you get the fuck up!?”

And just like that, he’s in the real world, with the real Oscar, who hits him and hurts him down below, and berates his very existence. “S-sorry, I’m paying att-attention.”

“Yeah, right. Now call the woman up, and have her agree to coming over.”

Al is confused. “B-but we just c-c-called her, w-won’t she get annoyed?”

Oscar looks at him as though he just spoke nonsense. Maybe he had. “Are you completely brain dead? That was two hours ago. Now, call her up. And please don’t sound so sad and kicked puppy like. She’ll think I’m beating you or something.”

But you are, Al thinks. Nonetheless, the call is made with Oscar breathing down his neck.

She’ll be here the twentieth. And Al is terrified for them both.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
2001

You know when you watch a film, and two lovers wake up in the morning and it’s all sparkly, and romantic and there’s soft music playing? Well, sadly that is not real life. Not for Albert anyways.

But when Al wakes up in the morning, and Oscar is above him holding a bowl of cereal as an offering, all those sparkly movies fly out of his head and die, because he swear this is one of the most, if not the most romantic moment in his life.

He’s sitting up, in bed gaping a bit like a fish, so after about ten more seconds of this Oscar clears his throat, “Al? You gonna sit there, or you gonna take this?” He pretty much shoves the bowl of sugary cereal into Al’s hand, before getting off the bed and dressing.

Al shuts his mouth, then opens it again to take a bite of the cereal -some knockoff fruity pebbles- then asks where Oscar is going.

“Oh, I’m off to work. This has been really fun, but now I’m off back into the harsh and ever so cruel real world.” Al smiles at this apt description, grinning like an idiot when Oscar gives him a goodbye kiss before heading out.

“Drive safe!” Al shouts after him.

 

“Will do!” He yells back.

 

Al finishes his cereal, sets the bowl down onto his nightstand then relieves himself. He had work too. Sighing, he gets back to his near complete sculpture.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The cereal bowl smells quite foul when Al returns in the evening, covered in adhesive and a bit of paint, but it’s not like anybody smells it anyways. It’s a faint odor, one Al doesn’t notice at all, far too enraptured by the task of removing the glue from his skin.

What he does notice, is the clothing Oscar left behind.

‘I better wash it then,’ he thinks, stripping off his clothes so he can shower first. His shower is quick and short lived, filled with awkward arousing thoughts, most about his newfound beau. He steps out, quickly wraps a bathrobe around himself and gets to dressing.

Al chooses a pair of sweatpants and a comfy old hoodie to wear, nobody would be visiting anyways. He dries his hair messily, then picks up the clothes Oscar left behind, his own messy clothes strewn about on the floor, which is embarrassing because Oscar probably saw an he probably thinks Al is a slob.

‘Ugh, I’m a mess,’ he thinks, dumping the dirty clothes into a laundry basket. He heads out the door, slipping on some crocs as he goes, the laundry room being his intended destination. He walks into his apartment’s hallway, into the elevator and down to the laundry floor.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
1988

“Hey, Al! Fucknut!”

Al turns around, backpack straps firmly held in both of his hands. “Yes?” He turns face to face with Oscar, his bully/sort of friend.

“Walk with me.” On Oscar's face are several long bruises, belt marks, Al thinks.

“Wh-why?”

“I don’t have to answer you, idiot.” He continues walking, stopping when he notices Al isn’t following.

“Come on,” he says.

“No,” the boy says, stomping back towards his house, ignoring the older boy's calls,

“I said, wait,” Oscar says, grabbing Al’s arm. 

“Let go-“

“Calm down, okay? I’m just kind of, uh, alone.”

Al softens, smiling a tad. “Lonely, you mean?”

Oscar looks a bit…flustered? “Yeah, I guess,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Al grabs his hand, Oscar yanking away instantly at the touch. “What are you doing?,” he asks.

“Walking with you,” the younger of the two says, grabbing the older’s hand again, this time holding on tightly as they walk.

Al can’t see it, but Oscar is smiling. Internally, anyways.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
December, 2001

Dear Diary, 

Oscars gone crazy, I think. He hit me the other day, and uh, the day before that and that, but he’s been hurting me basically. He says he's sorry, but it hurts so much. And he just keeps doing it, how sorry can he be. And he’s lost interest in me, sexually. And romantically. No kisses goodbye, and he keeps me locked away like some sort of princess.

It’s crazy. 

\-------------------------------------

August, 2001

Dear Diary, 

Oscar took me back to his house today, and it’s really nice! Nicer than I expected of somebody who’s single. And a tattoo artist. But yeah, it’s pretty cozy, like a bungalow style house, I think they’re called.  
It’s one story, green with white accents (which is sort of ugly but whatevs) and it’s got a pretty nice backyard. But he’s got no dogs, which is odd because there were leashes inside and a weird little indoor doghouse in the basement. I mentally shrug at this. And there are locks outside of the doors…… but whatever I’m going one, but he loves me I think. 

Maybe if they legalize it, we'll get married. Oooh, I wonder if he’ll propose? And how? I’m ahead of myself, but I fucked him last night. In the ass. Hard. It was great, and he bought me a cool mood ring, which I can’t believe he remembers. Wow.

Bye, bitch diary.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
January, 2003

“Surprise!” Oscar says, lifting his hands up and away from Al’s eyes.

In front of the strawberry blonde man is a medium-sized mansion, with a fountain, gate and everything.

“Oh. Uh, wow, Oscar. You, did you, uh b-buy this for, uh m-me?”

Oscar is grinning his ears off practically. “Yup. Do you like it?”

Al is uneasy. “Yes, y-yes of course, I l-like it, but wh-what about our uh, o-old house? Th-the bungalow?”

Oscar snorts. “That’s no place to raise a kid, stupid. Now, come this way.”

“K-kid,” Al splutters. Wha-what do you mean?”

Oscar ignores him, unlatching the gate, leading the way to the front doors of the mansion, their mansion. He takes Al to the basement, which is surprisingly clean and nice smelling, into a weird passage that had to be unlocked to access and into a well lit, soft and comfy room.

“Remember how your dear cousin went missing?”

Al doesn’t like where this is going, at all. “Y-yes?”

“Welllll,” he walks through the small living room into a bedroom, revealing a seemingly passed out -most likely drugged- Nicole. “Ta-da!”

Al covers his mouth, repressing a scream. He points at her, shaking. “Wh-wh-wh-why is she here? Wh-what do y-you d-d-d-“

“Do to her,” Oscar finishes. “I brought her here, saved her really. Once an addict, always an addict I say.”

“But, th-that’s kidnapping! Sh-she can’t be h-here! S-s-send her h-home!”

Oscar pushes him onto the bed, uncomfortably close to his dear cousin. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do, you miserable, worthless little cunt,” he spits, venom dripping from his words.

Al trembles, nodding frantically. “Y-yes! Yes! I’m s-sorry, Ozzy, I r-really d-didn’t mean to! It’s j-just that I r-really don’t want you to h-hurt her,” he sobs, starting to wail as he shakes underneath Oscar.

“Like I hurt you?” He asks, voice now sugary sweet. Al nods, squawking when Oscar wraps a hand around his scrawny throat, adding an almost crushing pressure. “Don’t you think you deserve it though? You’re such a brat, I’m just punishing you,” he says, placing intense emphasis on ‘punishing’.

“Y-yes,” he chokes out, face red. He scratches at Oscar's arms, despite knowing there’s no use. He had wasted away ever since he first moved in with the older man. “Pl-please,” he forces out, black dots dancing on the edge of his vision. 

Oscar finally lets go, Al gasping for air, much like a fish*. “You don’t want me to hurt your cousin? Well, it’s too late. Now she’s pregnant and the babies belong to both of us. Deal with it. Listen,” he slaps Al’s face. “You’re going to take care of her, feed her, bathe her, massage her fucking feet! Do you hear me?”

Al cries, snot running from his mouth and nods. 

Oscar smacks him across the face, open palmed. “No, use your fucking words, you brat.”

He wails once, high pitched and short lived, sobs then says, “Y-yesssss, yessir. Yes. Please, yes yes yes.”

“Good,” he says, affectionately patting Al on the cheek, in the same spot where he just slapped him. “Now, let’s go get to packing, yeah? Come on, sweetest,” he says, pulling the crying man up.

He does so, following Oscar out of the room, which he locks behind him, through the passage, which is once more hidden and locked, up the stairs, out the front doors, through the gate and into the car.

He’s completely silent during the car ride back to their house, suppressing his sobs.

Al prays Nicole can escape, while she pretends she didn’t just sit there and do nothing as he was slapped around and bullied, just like all those years ago.

They both cry that night.

For similar reasons.

 

 

 

 

\-------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Glub glub.
> 
> ^_^ 
> 
> Comment and kudos


	11. Ironic First Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy it baby. We're approaching the one month anniversary!

2001

“Owwwww! Ah, it hurts.” Al complains, the tattoo needle jabbing away at the back of his neck, torturing the sensitive flesh.

Oscar rolls his eyes, playfully slaps his arm. “Quit complaining. You’re the one that decided on a neck tat. Now, hold still or this’ll look like deep fried shit.”

Al almost laughs, holding back so his tattoo comes out well. “Ouch,” he says when it drags over a particularly sore spot for the third time.

“Are you sure this isn’t too soon,” Oscar asks, halting in his ministrations temporarily. 

Al snorts, “Well, it’s too late now, isn’t it?”

“Well, not nece-“

“Sorry to interrupt,” an unknown woman says. Unknown to Oscar that is. Al knows exactly who she is.

Al lifts his head up slightly, to address her. “Maria? What are you doing here,” he half asks half yells.

“Of course I had to be here to see you pop your inking cherry! I didn’t know you were so familiarly acquainted with the head artist,” she says, eyeing up the outline of ‘Ozzy’ on Al’s neck, a raunchy grin on her features.

Al blushes, burying his face into the leather plush seat he’s resting on, “Shut up Maria,” he groans. 

Ah, Maria, Oscar thinks. Al’s lesbian friend and apparently one of his shop’s most frequent clients. Always getting random things and even more random cover ups done here, he was quite familiar with her, despite never working on her pieces himself.

“Could you just leave, please,” Al says, Oscar resisting the urge to smile. It’s natural for Al to prefer Oscar’s company to Maria's, of course. And he’s glad to be rid of the bubbly woman, doesn’t need her distracting Al later on…..

“Oh fine,” she relents. “Show me how it looks later, and do share the deets of your new piece of man.”

Oscar rolls his eyes. She leaves through the beaded curtain that acts as a door for every cubicle in his shop, designed for privacy and it’s quite space efficient to only have dividers instead of a million walls creating a labyrinth in his shop.

“Anyways, back to work.”

Al groans, but bares his neck further, allowing even better access than before. Oscar sets to work, digging in a bit harder than he typically would, but Al needn't know that.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

“Voila!” Oscar says, revealing his work to Al, who was holding a hand mirror in order to see.

In sprawling cursive, Oscar’s own handwriting used as a stencil is ‘Ozzy.’ Oscar personally dislikes the nickname immensely, but it is quite endearing of Al to mark his virginal skin with Oscar's nickname.

“Oh, Oz, I love it,” Al practically squeals, examining the piece further. Oscar hadn’t used any color besides dark greys and blacks, to avoid obvious or rapid fading.

He sets the mirror down, stands up and glomps Oscar with a crushing hug. ”Thank you so much, Ozzy, I love it.” He peppers the shorter man's face with kisses, causing him to dramatically groan as if he doesn't enjoy it, even though he does. Immensely. 

“I’m glad,” Oscar says, gently detaching the younger man from him.

“How much is it,” Al asks, digging into his wallet.

“On the house,” Oscar says, cleaning up his needles before storing them into their respective cases.

“Nooo, how much is it? I can’t just waste four hours of your work time without paying you,” he whines, tugging Oscar's sleeve.

“Its fine,” he says, sly smirk crawling onto his face. “There are other ways you can pay me back.”

Al shoves his shoulder and smiles, “Pervert. Of course that’s what you want. My place, then?”

“Sure.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
June, 2003

THUD a punch

 

CRACK a kick

 

“Aaaaaaaaaaa!!!! Pleee-ease sto-stop,” Al sobs out, as he’s ‘punished.’

 

THUD 

“Not until you apologize for what you said,” Oscar replies, expression a terrifying icy cold mask. Or perhaps his emotions were the mask all along, Al doesn’t know anymore. 

“I- wheeze -I’m sorry,” he moans, “I’m sooooooooory,” higher pitched as he wails.

“Shame. You used to have such a high pain threshold.” He picks up Al’s bruised and battered body, setting him on a loveseat in the corner of his cell/bedroom. “Hmm,” he strokes the purple and gold bruises blossoming on the ginger’s face. “You bruise so prettily. I should have someone paint it. Perhaps,” he pulls a disposable camera from his pocket, aiming it at Al’s droopy, crying face. “a picture will suffice.”

“Now, get some rest. You’ve got some work tomorrow.” He pats Al’s leg. “Sleep tight.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Nicole Annalise Nelson has always had nightmares. Vivid, sweat drenched, piss inducing nightmares. One’s that she would remember for days, fueling her insomnia, and in turn, her addiction to speed. Nasty nasty addiction. 

But as she lies in bed, a bed that is placed in a prison cell, a comfortable cell, but a cell nonetheless, swollen with child no less, she thinks those nightmares seem very foolish and dreamlike in comparison to the one she’s currently living.

And Albert. Dear, sweet, over intelligent Albert is stuck in an abusive relationship with a sociopathic bully. Again. She supposes it’s ironic, in a way that Al is free to rescue her, but is too afraid to do so. Much like her when she was young, free to help, but peer-pressured not to. 

Irony is such a spiteful bitch, she thinks as she lies there, the two girls inside of her kicking.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

1988

They’re at Al’s treehouse, their walk together interrupted by sudden rainfall, sitting next to each other on a couple of old cushions. “Hey, uh O-Oscar can I ask you s-somethin?”

Oscar raises a brow, “Shoot.”

“I w-was wonder-wonderin who, wh-who messed u-u-up your f-f-face?” He rubs his hands together, head bowed and anxious.

“Uh-“

“That’s okay! Y-you don’t h-hafta tell me.”

Oscar shakes his head. “No, no its just, I don’t wanna talk much today.”

Al looks at him, noticing the sort of distant look in the eighteen year old’s eyes. “Oh. I-I’m sorry.”

Oscar waves his hand in a ‘whatever’ or ‘fine’ gesture, “Don’t be. You didn't do anything. Now, do ya have any food in here?” Al smiles, all buck teeth and sunshine again. “I’m starving,” Oscar says.

“No, n-not in h-here. But there’s s-s-some in my h-house. My re-rents ain’t home, so.”

Oscar grins wolfishly, “Well why didn’t you say so sooner?” He slips out of the tree house quickly, climbing down the ladder at an alarmingly fast pace. He then waits under the awning of Al’s house, avoiding the rain while Al makes his way towards him.

“H-here,” Al says, unlocking the sliding glass door that serves as an entrance from the back yard to the dining room. “Pl-please c-could you w-wipe your sh-sh-shoes off?”

Oscar nods, chuckling slightly at Al’s nervousness; it was very endearing.

Al opens it, steps to the side so Oscar can enter and wipes off his shoes thoroughly before putting them into a small closet, that Oscar guesses serves as a shoe cubby of sorts.

Oscar does the same, “What, are your parents kindergarteners? I haven't seen a shoe cubby in over ten years.”

Al lets out a little laugh, “No, j-just n-neat freaks. They’d fr-freak out if they kn-knew I brought a fr-friend over or made a mess even.”

“Would they now?” Oscar asks, grinning with an evil glint in his eyes.

“Wh-what are you th-thinking,” Al asks, warily. 

“Nothing,” he responds in a sing-song tone. “Just, that if they’re neat freaks you should give ‘em something to worry about.”

“Oh haha, if I did, they'd kill me.”

“Well, then don’t let them know it was you.”

Al furrows his brows together, “H-how?”

“If they’re that freaked out about cleaning that they’d kill you over something small, then they’re probably germaphobes.”

“N-no, j-just my mom i-is. Sh-she gets all ups-upset o-over it and d-dad gets real m-m-m-mad.”

“Oh. So no go then.”

“Well, wh-why do ya s-say th-that?” Al asks, stepping closer to the older of the two. 

“I just don’t want you to get beat on or something cos of me,” Oscar admits, averting his eyes a bit.

“O-oh.” Al feels his cheeks tinge pink and quickly sets off towards the kitchen, in an attempt to distract Oscar from him. Unluckily, he’s followed.

“N-no, y-you should go s-set u-up a m-m-movie o-or something.”

Oscar raises a brow, “You trying to get rid of me?”

“N-no!” Al says, too quickly to be true.

Oscar smirks, “Yeah, you are. Why, you embarrassed? Don’t want me to see your little pink face?”

“N-no,” he pouts, looking down.

The distraction was all Oscar needed, before he starts savagely tickling Al, under the pits, on the stomach, Al giggling and pushing away, until it’s ruined by Oscar pressing over a bruise that Al had received from his father two nights before.

Al gasps, swatting the shorter’s hands away. 

Oscar looks concerned for a second, before quickly switching to an impassive mask. “What's up with you,” he asks, the same earlier conveyed concern coloring his voice, but this time he doesn’t get a chance to mask it.

“N-nothing,” Al says, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Lemme see,” Oscar says, reaching for his shirt.

“No, stop,” he protests, batting Oscar away, but Oscar is persistent; eventually removing Al’s shirt completely. 

He nearly gasps at the bruises, Al’s skin should be clear of marks, Oscar hadn’t hit him for weeks, almost two months. “Al….”

The boy in question quickly re-buttoning his shirt, save for the few that fell out when Oscar had roughly yanked it open. “Just, uh, p-please f-forget you, th-that you s-saw that.”

“Al….who did that? Did one of the guys do that?”

“Wh-why? Are you j-jealous s-someone b-b-beat you to, to the p-p-punch?” His words are spiteful, but his soft blue eyes full of hurt.

“Hey, it’s not like that,” Oscar says, resting a hand on Al’s shoulder.

Al jerks away, “Th-then what’s it l-like, O-Oscar?”

“I, I don’t know, kay? But I don’t mean to-“

“T-to hurt me!? L-like e-everybody else!? J-just pl-please dr-drop it.”

“No, Al.” Oscar’s eyes are shockingly open, conveying some deep emotion that Al can’t decipher. “Because I get it. Really,” he gestures to the long bruises on his face, pulls back his bangs to reveal small, circular scars, cigarette burns that are hidden in his hairline, “I understand. I know, he hits you, doesn't he?”

Al’s face crumples, reminding Oscar how young he truly is, and he hugs the redhead close to him, rubbing his back as the boy breaks down, crying.

“Wh-why does th-this h-happen!? Why does everyb-body h-hate me!? ”

Oscar furrows his brows, pained by this, “No, no no, no one hates you, buddy,” he soothes, gently shushing Al when he sobs loudly. “I gotcha, bud, just let go, let go.”

Later, when Al’s parents don’t return, Oscar holds him again and doesn’t let go for the rest of the night.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

2001

(Diary entry from previous chapter, about Ozzy taking him to his bungalow)  
\-----------------

“Wow, this is your place?” Oscar nods, instructing Al to remove his shoes before entry, as he does the same, then sets them on the doormat inside to the right.

“Ha, I didn’t know, uh, tattoo artists made so much.”

Oscar smiles at him, “I actually own the shop as well, plus my military checks.”

“You were in the military,” Al asks, mouth agape.

“Yessir.”

“Well, uh what, uh what branch?”

“Marine Corps,” he says, pulling his sleeve up to reveal a USMC tattoo on his upper bicep.

Al trails a finger over the green tinged black ink, attempting to see how old it is.

“Tryna see when I got it?”

Al blushes a bit at being so easily found out, but nods. 

“I got it right after boot camp, figured I deserved a treat after thirteen weeks of hell. I thought it was bad-ass.”

“It is,” Al agrees, leaning back against a wall.

“It sure wasn’t when I first got it, Daniels, my fellow private when we got deployed, and bunkmate when we were still training poked fun constantly. It was alright though.”

“How, uh, how long didja serve, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“You don’t hafta be so shy, geez. I served from age nineteen to twenty seven. So, eight years, plus two years of accelerated courses in college before that.”

“Wow, you sure were eager huh?”

“Yeah, yeah I was. Anyways, enough of that talk, you owe me a little something something, I believe,” he purrs, grabbing Al around the waist and kissing him.

Al pulls back, “I believe I do,” he says, smiling before resuming their kiss.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Surprisingly enough, after sex, the most they did for the rest of the night was kiss, cuddle and watch movies together on Oscar’s beanbag of a couch.

“What’s with the beanbag couch,” Al had asked upon witnessing the monstrosity that poses as a sofa.

“Oh, its for gaming. When the guys come over, we game on it. It’s perfect for it.”

“Ah,” Al says, nodding in understanding.

\----------------

Now, it was morning and Al was alone in Oscar’s comfy, oh sooooo comfy bed, the spot where Oscar had laid long gone cold. He sighs to himself in bed, before giving into his bladder’s complaints and requests for emptying.

He swings his legs out of bed, and heads to where he thinks the bathroom is, ah he was right. He relieves himself quickly, washes his hands, slashes his face with water and heads downstairs. Hopefully he’d catch Oscar on the way out.

No such luck. When he gets to the kitchen/dining room/living room open space area, there is a distinctive lack of Oscar. And judging by the note stuck to the fridge, Al had slept in quite late. He looks up at the clock on the wall, speaking of, he just noticed that Oscar has a LOT of clocks. Anyways the time reads ten after noon, shit, Al had to head home. He scarfs down a quick breakfast of pop tarts and runs out, leaving the door unlocked behind him.

He hopes Oscar doesn’t mind.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

July, 2008

“Daddy, daddy, look! I lost a toof!” Queenie says as she runs towards her dad’s study, Al hears the commotion from the bathroom and quickly intercepts her, toothbrush hanging from his mouth. 

She looks up at him, her chubby cheeks red and rosy and Al smiles around the brush in his mouth. 

“Let go, papa,” she complains, wriggling around in his arms, her small body dangling a couple of feet from the ground. “I hafta show daddy somefin.”

“I know, I know, I heard.” He turns her towards him, then sets his toothbrush down, swallows his toothpaste covertly, nearly gagging from the taste and looks her in the eye, a faux deadly seriousness playing across his face. “But Queens, I gotta tell ya, I’ve been wanting to see one of your amazing teeth for a while now. Can’t you show me first?”

She pouts, a childish consideration flitting across her round, baby fattened features. “Well…. Okay then. But not too long, daddy has to see too.”

Al nods, “Would you like me to carry you, your majesty?”

“Yes,” she says, her voice coming across as a poor imitation of a posh accent, endearing nonetheless, “carry on as before.”

He carries her to the kitchen, listens to her go on and on about how it fell out, him grinning loonishly as she haughtily moved her head around, exaggerating while Al scoops her some ice cream for her sore gums.

Suddenly, while Al is spooning the last scoop into their bowls (he caved and had to have some), she says, “Papa, where’s Emma?”

He freezes, heart still sore and tender from her hospital visit a month ago. He recovers quickly, resuming his scooping, he decides they’ll have an extra couple of scoops, not making eye contact. “She, uh she had another ‘moment’ (they call her seizures moments, finding that word less painful) and has to stay in the hospital a while longer. But she’ll be home soon.”

Queenie pouts, “I hope so. I miss her and I’m so bored without a friend.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

They eat their ice cream over Queenie’s favorite movie; Batman: Mask of the Phantasm, for the fiftieth time probably. Still, it keeps both of their minds off of the frail and sick girl alone in the hospital.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

August 16th, the twins birthday, 2004

“Hey, Al. Come here a sec,” Maria asks, spooking the redhead so he squeezes his baby tighter.

He turns and nods, handing Emma off to Oscar; who was talking with some old marine buddy. “Oh,” Oscar says, “ya going somewhere?”

Al rubs his hands together nervously, further confirming his best friend's suspicions. “J-just with Maria f-for a f-few,” then in a lower tone, Maria has to strain to hear, “is that alright?”

Oscar nods, cradles the baby while the marine friend coos at her.

Al walks towards Maria, curious as to what she wants, while she leads him to the corridor near the back door.

“Okay, Al. I’m not being a dick, but what the hell is with you and Ozzy? Is he…..abusing you?”

It’s such an awful word, they both shudder at the usage, Al far more than her. “N-no, of c-course not. Ozzy loves me, he’d never hurt me.”

She frowns, lifts up one of his too long sleeves, revealing marred and purple flesh. He tries to pull away, but she holds him securely. She points to his arm, “Explain this, then. What, did you fall? It was an accident? Al, baby please. You need help. And you need to get away from him.”

He suddenly rips his arm away, before firmly gripping her by the shoulders. “Don’t talk like that,” he whisper yells. “I love him and he loves me. Maybe he hurts me sometimes, but I can take it. If you don’t like that, then leave.”

She scowls, shrugging out of his grip before leaving with her coat and bag.

Al goes back to the living room, takes Emma back from Oscar’s friend and walks up to his -separate- bedroom. He holds her close, cradling her fat baby body and pretends he isn’t crying into his one year old’s soft neck.

When Oscar later asks what happened, he shrugs and says Maria had early work in the morning. Which earns him a slap to the face, Oscar taking Emma, warning him not to lie anymore, and locks him in the bedroom. 

Alone.

He cries more that night. For loss of friends, love, and family.

All alone. 

 

 

 

\--------------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think!
> 
> Link to bicep tat
> 
> https://i.pinimg.com/236x/d4/c7/72/d4c772b65771818639ddc2f1b0ae491f--marine-tattoos-military-tattoos.jpg
> 
> Also, link to another tat Ozzy has but doesnt mention.
> 
> https://i.pinimg.com/736x/0d/f6/6d/0df66d56c5e86797e42d0ce269cec4d4.jpg


	12. Truces, a Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second to last! Eeeeek

August 21st

*ding dong*

Al sighs, sets Queenie down into her crib, wiping his hands free of milk with an old burping rag, slinging it on his shoulder, before making his way downstairs to the door.

*ding-ding-ding-ding dong*

“Oh my god, I’m coming!” he yells, fed up by he incessant ringing. His twins just settled down.

He swings open the door, clad in only a dark grey tank top, sweatpants and a burping rag thrown over his shoulder, like some spittle covered accessory. He did not expect to see Maria at the door, though he should've; she was too good a friend to just up and leave his life, she just had a hot head, probably needed time away. 

“Hi,” she says, all ashamed awkwardness, as she stands on the steps, covertly avoiding the bruises that are all too visible in his current attire. It’s not like anyone cares about a gay man, besides friends, which he had little to none of.

“Hey,” he says, letting a smile grace his lips, not wanting to fight with the only light outside of his family. 

“I just wanted to say,” they both say, simultaneously starting and stopping.

“No you-“ they say again. Al waits for her to go first, “I wanted to say sorry,” she says, brown eyes, searching his blue ones. “Even if I don't….agree with what he, what you two do alone, I still value as a friend, my BEST friend. So…..truce?” Her face is just so sweet and earnest, Al can’t say no. Not that he would’ve anyways.

“Truce,” he agrees, wrapping his -far too bony- arms around her, pulling her close into a tight hug that she returns, equally intense.

“God, I missed you,” she says.

“It’s only been a week.”

“Yeah, but you’re like my only friend besides, Shannon, Monique, Dominic….y know? I can’t talk with them like I can with you.”

“Yeah I know,” he says, sighing when they part from their probably too long hug. “Come inside?”

“Always,” she says, nasty smile on face.

“Ewww,” he responds, grossed out by her innuendos. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Claiming, 

Browsing through Oscar’s office was interesting, Al finds. He knows the shorter man had explicitly told him not to, but he was just too curious. He had taken a glimpse too many times to not be interested, from what he could view, there was military memorabilia and other cool stuff. So, using one of his hairpins to pick the lock, he sneaks in while Oscar is sleeping. What could it hurt, he thought, ever so naïve. He enters, locking the door behind him.

Inside on the desk, lay a box, MC PHOTOS scribbled on top, in Oscar’s messy handwriting. Curious, he lifts off the lid, not dusty, meaning he was in it frequently enough for it to not gather dust. Al sets the lid to the side, carefully so as not to disturb the paperweight that had a flimsy gelatinous scrunchy attached to its top.

Inside the box lay piles upon piles of pictures, not just military pictures, as the box would have lead him to believe, but rather news clippings, military pics, civilian pics of marines, one in particular. One with a bright and familiar shock of red hair, Juniper. And there, a paper clipping that reads

 

THREE MARINES INJURED IN DEADLY CAR CRASH, ONE DEAD

Yada, yada, he browses through it, only gleaning parts that were specifically interesting. Such as, deadly collision with semi, crash and impact too much for one…..

Juniper Hobbs.

Juniper from school, Juniper Hobbs? Had he and Oscar served together? Why would he have-

Then it all clicks.

Oscar's a murderer???

He had to get out of there, but the click of the door unlocking urges him to shit the box and hide, yes under the desk, quick! In the nick of time, he hides under the desk, carefully tucking his feet beneath him, his knees curled to his chest. Oscar enters, paces around the room for a bit, (what a weirdo), then suddenly he’s behind the desk, Al not even noticing the movement. One minute he was in front of him, the next behind. Oh fuck.

Oh shit, shit shit! He looks fucking pissed!

“What are you doing under there, birdy?”

“Uh, uh, uh, n-n-n-n-nothing!” Al goes to stand, too quickly, hits his head on the bottom of the desk, ouch.

Oscar has his hair now, pulls it.

“Ow! Ow ow ow ow Oz sto-“

He’s brought up from under the desk, a firm backhand sending him reeling as his head snaps back with the FORCE of it. Oscar is still holding his hair though, his head dangling, scared to even look the man in the eyes. He's forced to anyways, the dark haired man's gaze burning holes into him, and he resists the urge to look away. 

“What. Were. You doing. In here, Al?” He asks, encasing Al into only THIS moment, this one question, WHY? He wishes he knew why he had to come in here, had to snoop, had to RUIN everything.

As time progresses, without him giving an answer, Oscar wraps his other hand around his throat, not quite engulfing it, but his fingers almost touch around the redhead’s neck. 

“Well?”

The hand SLOWLY starts to squeeze, adding pressure, little by little. “I, I um, I I I don’t know, I d-don’t know why, Oscar PLEASE let go, y-you're,” the hand squeezes tighter, “y-y-you’re SCARING me!” Al reaches his arms up, to alleviate the pressure, unsuccessful besides scratching the other man's forearms.

The pressure is now to the point where he can’t get enough air in, his arms falling to his sides, limp. His head swimming with hot air as he strains to breathe, eyes watering as Oscar backs him away from the desk, his arm weakly catching the top of the desk, knocking something down. He reaches again, grabbing the paper weight, and with the last of his strength swings to knock the other man upside the head, causing him to stumble and let go of Al’s neck, who gasps loudly, breathing FINALLY. 

Al doesn’t take the much needed reprieve though, taking his chance to ESCAPE. He shoots out of the office, runs down the stairs, breathing heavily, lungs burning. He has to get out or else……

He stops just long enough to get his wallet and keys, slip his shoes on and run out the door. He's only wearing a tanktop, but he can't bring himself to care about the cold. Yet. Once he’s outside, he heads down the small path to the car, when suddenly an arm is around his waist, pulling him back. He struggles, elbows behind him, luckily making contact. When the grip around him is lessened, he beelines it to his car, and then he’s slammed against it, his body protesting at the impact.

He manages to get out of Oscar’s grip again, running around the other side, facing him. He tries to reason, “Ozzy, please. I didn't see anything, I swear.”

“If you didn’t see anything, then why are you so keen on running away?”

Al snorts, “Probably because you smacked me then tried to strangle me to death! Look, I’m sorry for snooping, it wasn’t my business. Can’t we just have a truce?”

“Really,” Ozzy asks, tone flat.

“Yes! Please, it’s cold and I’m not even dressed. I promise, all I saw were a few pictures of you with some marines. I swear.”

“Alright, then. But you really shouldn’t run off like that anyways.” He heads inside, Al beside him, a bit hesitant to be near him. 

 

Once inside, they remove their shoes, Al hesitantly sets down his keys, says while Oscar is behind him, “We really should talk about your aggression issues, Ozzy. I know that was a bit of a betrayal of trust, but you can’t just lash-“

Oscar slams Al against the counter, punches him against the side of the head so hard he goes unconscious, says, “I think that’s enough discussion.”

He drags Al’s limp frame out of the kitchen and downstairs, to the basement.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The  
Basement

Day 

Groggily, Al regains his wits, head feeling stuffed full of cotton, body cold. He feels wet…? He cracks his eyes open, registering the dank, dimly lit space as the basement. He slowly brings his hands up, only to feel a heavy weight around them, peering down, he sees that they’re bound, heavy cuffs linked to a thick, black, metal chain that’s been hooked to the drain….

Oh, fuck. Fuck me, he thinks, pulling at them, hoping it’s just a trick, that Oscar is cruelly playing. 

A quick survey of his surroundings tells him otherwise. There are lights above him, industrial studio lights, like the ones in the tattoo shop, but they’re turned off, probably so it remains dim in here. The walls are musty, a coppery, rank and musty smell emanating from them and from that….thing in the corner. Is that a fucking…….cross? You’ve got to be kidding, Al thinks, slightly hysterical. Worse, there are plenty of things like that; a big steel table with trays of menacing equipment around it, a big cage that’s got hair in the bars, of fucking course he fell for a fucking psycho.

He slowly gets to his feet, unsteady as he finds his balance. He sees a light emanating from up above, the stairs and exit! But the door is probably locked… maybe he could try to overpower Oscar when he comes down? Yeah, he’ll just ambush him, grab his keys from the counter and escape.

But what about the cuffs? He sighs, he'll just have to wait until Oscar comes down…..

 

The  
Basement  
Night 

Oscar hasn’t come down once. And Al is ravenous, the last time he ate was that morning, an hour before his ill-fated office excursion. And now it’s night, judging by how dark it is in the room, no more sunlight streaming in through the small, underground window. If only he could reach it, maybe send for help. But would anybody really even care? He’s gay, and accusing his lover of kidnapping, no one would believe him!

He lies down on the ratty mattress he first awoke on, closes his eyes and tries for sleep.

 

…..

 

He opens his eyes, irritated. Al is exhausted, but the cold in the room won’t allow him to sleep, being clad in only a tanktop not helping the situation. 

As he settles in again, on his stomach, both arms tucked underneath him for some warmth, he hears the basement door open. Finally. He’s full of anticipation, untucking his arms so they're free, and also a heavy ensue of dread, weighing down his guts, festering in a way that just SCREAMS ‘bad omen’. 

He can hear Oscar’s steps down the stairs, slow, deliberately mocking him. Or at least that’s what Al thinks. He hits the last step, emerges from the dark shadows like some villain in a child’s fairy tale, only he’s Al’s REAL villain; he has been, ever since he was twelve, it’s just took all of this for him to see.

“Oscar,” he starts, trailing off, not knowing what to say, suddenly at a loss for words, his spitfire missing. 

“Al,” he says, stepping closer, to his chains. Al flinches once, but wills himself to remain still from then on. “These must be very uncomfortable by now,” Oscar says, unlocking the cuffs, freeing Al’s suddenly sore wrists. “I’m very sorry for my previous behavior, Al. It was completely inappropriate and I overreacted to an extreme degree, and for that, I hope you can forgive me.”

In the face of such shame, or embarrassment, Al’s previous grievances seem petty. Besides, what did he even mean when he said Oscar has always been his bully, when he was twelve he protected him and now, all he’s done is had a minor slip up, and Al is acting like he’s been tortured. But….the cross? The cage, the, the fucking table? How the hell is that explainable?

“Hey, Oscar, I don’t really fully forgive you, but I’m not mad. Anymore, at least. It’s not not big deal anyways,” he smoothly lies. “But, uh, if you don’t mind my asking, what's with the torture devices down here? Kinda creepy,” he halfheartedly jokes. 

Oscar smiles, a tiny quirk of the lips, “Just some Halloween décor, along with some old medical supplies I’m holding onto for a friend.”

Right. Like hell Al believes that. ‘Play along,’ his survival instincts say. “Oh, hah. Your friend a doctor?”

“Something like that. Maybe you could stick around for Halloween, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure. But could we like, head upstairs now? I’m starving.”

“Oh, yeah sorry.” Oscar looks awkward and apologetic at having forgotten about Al’s uh various needs…. “Yeah, come on, lets get up there.”

He leads Al upstairs, to which Al is grateful for, now all he has to do is play nice, eat a little and ESCAPE. He can do that. Also, a shower would be nice, he voices aloud.

“Sure,” Ozzy -no Oscar, kidnappers don’t deserve cute, Satanic nicknames- he says, leading Al back to the kitchen, dinner, he presumes, in the oven. “But you should eat first.” It’s a suggestion, but it's voiced like a command, which Al does NOT dig. 

“Smells good,” he comments, taking a seat at the table, tired and hungry. 

“Thanks, it’s my ma’s recipe.”

“Oh, cool.”

Oscar gone to the fridge, opens it up, “Hey, you wanna beer?”

Probably shouldn’t drink and drive. But he might get suspicious otherwise…..”Uh, yeah, why not.”

Oscar rummages around in the fridge a bit TOO long, produces two beers, both already open and foaming at the top. He gives one to Al, fizz spilling out the side, onto both of their hands. Al chuckles a bit, nervous, takes a gulp of it, taste more bitter than his usual beers are. He shrugs it off, sets it down while Oscar takes dinner out of the oven; a hotdish of sorts. 

“My mom didn’t really have a name for this, but I call it ‘garbage mac’ hotdish. Here,” he serves Al a piece of it, cheese dripping and oozing like something out of a food porno. It appears to be a macaroni, cheese, ground beef and spinach hotdish, Al chuckling at the thought of a young Oscar, as a child maybe, eating this, getting food all over his face.

“What’s so funny,” Oscar asks, smiling as he serves himself a portion.

“Nothing, really. Just you as a kid eating this.”

Oscar raises a brow, “What do you mean?”

“Just uh, just the thought of your face when you were like, a kid, all covered in gunk, y’know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. Dig in, then.”

They eat together, in an oddly comfortable silence all things considered. After finishing up, Al offers to do the dishes, hoping he can distract Oscar, maybe the other man would go back upstairs, or in the living room, giving Al time to leave. He puts on some rubber gloves, suds up a sponge, mindlessly scrubs the plates and the silverware, waiting for his opportunity.

It comes when Oscar goes to the bathroom, Al waiting until the other man is halfway upstairs before he removes his gloves, and stalks over to the counter quietly, searching for his keys. He could've sworn he left them on the counter to the right, but they were nowhere to be seen. He checks the blue dish near the door where Oscar keeps his keys, but his own aren't there either. A bit frantic now, his movements jerky and erratic, slamming open drawers, searching every corner of the damn kitchen.

Finally, he prevails, grabs his keyring from the drawer containing legal papers, makes his way to the door, when he hears a creak on the stairs. He freezes, heart hammering in his chest. ‘Oh shit. Shit shit shit,’ he thinks, turning around. Oscar is on the steps, arms crossed, looking very….disappointed? 

“That’s it, then? You’re just gonna leave?” He makes his way down the stairs, leaning against the rail.

“Well what did you expect, Oscar?” Al steps closer, angry at Oscar, at this whole situation. “Did you think we would just kiss and make up? That’s not how real world people act, you can’t just freak out on me, lock me in your creepy fucking basement for a day and expect me to be alright with that! I’m not just a fuck-“

He’s cut off by Oscar grabbing him by the shoulders, fear making his heart hammer once more. He doesn't expect Oscar to kiss him, rough and brutal, pushing him into the living room, onto the couch. He also doesn’t expect to get hard from it, tent straining against his pajamas as they kiss, each flurried movement a fight for dominance. Al eventually gets the upper hand, pinning the black haired man to the couch seats, yanking down his pants, groping his ass.

Nothing is exchanged between the two besides pants and moans as he enters the older man, reveling in the tight, hot heat. Oscar groans, wraps his legs around Al’s waist as the taller of the two buries his cock deep in him, ramming against his prostate, and it’s good, it hurts like a bitch but it feels good, really good. Al is usually a bit gentler during their couplings, but Oscar could get used to this type of thing, that is if Al doesn’t (try to) leave him. It doesn’t last long, both tired and eager to finish, Al speeding up before coming, Oscar following with a few pumps to his (for the most part) neglected cock.

As they lie there, both panting and exhausted, Al on top and between Oscar’s legs, Oscar asks, “Truce?”

“Truce.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“Hey Al! Hey, Al wait up,” Juniper says, decked out in full ROTC gear, chasing the elusive redhead thriugh the school’s public park.

Al stops, turns and sits down on a bench. “What?”

“Hey, man. I just wanted to know what’s going on with you.”

“Nothings going on with me, what are you talking about?”

“You’ve been kind of avoiding me,” he says, awkward as he sit down next to the younger boy.

“And?” Al asks, nonchalant and almost apathetic in demeanor. 

“And I've missed you! Come on man, we be in one fight and suddenly you don’t wanna hang out anymore.”

“Juniper, I don’t know what you think me tutoring you is, but I’m not your girlfriend, I’m not gonna ‘hang’ with you all the time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got other people to tutor.” And with that, the redhead is off, leaving behind a flabbergasted and hurt Juniper.

The rift in their relationship only expanded from there, their tutoring sessions dwindling until they became weekly, then monthly then there were none. And when Juniper left for college, Al didn’t say goodbye. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

After feeding Nicole, the children at school and Oscar at work, Al wonders what the surprise is. He finds it, discarded in the waste basket a paper arrow pointing down to it. A pregnancy test.

A plus. Positive.

He doesn’t know if he’s horrified or excited. Or horrified by his excitement. 

\-----------------------------  
Later  
When Oscar returns, the children are already tucked in, sleeping soundly. Al is waiting, room dark, unlit. When Oscar sees him sitting there like some cliché character in a telenovela, he has to stifle a chuckle, choosing instead to walk in.

“I take it you saw my surprise present?”

“Yes. I, I did, and I c-can’t s-say I’m par-particularly pl-pleased about i-it. Wh-why, Oscar?” he’s almost exasperated by now, having run it through his mind the whole day, to the point he hardly cared why, just wanted it out of the way. 

“You said you wanted another kid, didn’t you?”

Al sighs, a frown twisting his lips, “Yeah, y-years a-a-ago! I’m pr-pretty s-sure my h-h-hands are f-full e-enough with Queenie and…” he trails off when Oscar comes forward, kisses him like he’s the water to his dehydrated fish. He pulls away, Oscar kissing his neck, trailing kisses and love-bites down to his partially bare shoulder, collar of his tee giving way. “A-and Emma, and I’ve al-already g-got m-my hands f-full…..h-how are you e-even g-gonna get c-custody, Nicole is pra-practically a v-vegetable, sh-she can’t e-even c-consent to being impre-impregnated, l-let alone give us c-custody!”

“Who said it’s Nicole’s?” He murmurs, taking Al’s lobe into his mouth, working it with his tongue.

“Wh-What do you m-mean, not h-her’s? Did, did you ch-cheat on m-me?”

Oscar snorts, Al shuddering at the contact, “No, of course not. I just applied for a surrogate, gave her your semen and yada, forged your signature….”

Al smiles, gleeful, kisses Oscar with every fiber of his being, spreads his legs to give himself to this horrible, terrible man he loves. And when they’ve finished, sweaty and panting, he doesn’t feel guilty, doesn’t feel the weight of the world on his shoulders, he just smiles, and goes to bed.

His life truly is perfect.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Al feels he’s going insane, staying up all hours of the night and day, never daring to neglect his remaining child; Queenie, but otherwise he’s unapproachable. And he’s got quite the set of nerves on him, digging through Oscar’s office -again- and Oscar knows, but he waits to see what Al is doing. Al knows the he’s just mocking him, never saying anything. He’s sure of it. Now, all he has to do is prove that his husband killed Juniper, kidnapped Nicole and practically killer her as well. Not to mention Emma.

He tries and tries, and searches and searches, but there’s no evidence, no proof of what Oscar has done. It’s very trying, his patience is so thinned, it’s nonexistent. He goes to bed at his usual time, 10, for the first time in six months.

He goes through his usual morning routine, from before, and then he gets to Nicole. Or more or less Al FINDS Nicole, in bed. Dead. 

He wonders when Oscar did this, before he calls the police.

 

\--------------------------------------

They take the body away, just like all the rest. Only this time it's different, THIS time, there's an investigation. For the first time in ten years, Al feels hope, REAL hope, something to hold on to.

Until they question him.

His fingerprints are everywhere, and her death was NO accident, they say.

But I'm her caretaker!, he cries, indignant. How could they accuse him?

It doesn't matter, they say.

And they take him away for questioning. He tries to explain. 

I was kidnapped, forced to stay here, he RAPED me. He did, I can't prove it, but he did. Years ago. And he, he kidnapped my cousin too, you see. He kidnapped her, raped her and got her pregnant.

They say he's crazy. He's got no proof for such wild allegations, no right to accuse an upstanding citizen like OSCAR of something like that. 

He's sent away.

\---------------------------------------

Al is told things he could never possibly believe. He's told there was a tragedy.

I know there was a tragedy, he screams, upset and OUTRAGED. How could they say that to him, don't they understand?? There were several tragedies, he screams. He killed my baby!

They tell him his husband is dead. 

Really? How? He deserved it, that prick.

No, they say. Your first husband, Juniper.

Juniper? He, he died. In a car accident, years ago. He wasn't my husband, he died before we could ever marry.

Mr Nelson, could you please tell us the date?

He furrows his brows, confused as to why they're asking such irrelevant questions. It's 2011, though I couldn't tell you the exact month and day for sure. I think, August maybe?

No, they say, pitying. It's February Ninth, the anniversary of your husband's death. Your first husband, Mr Nelson. Juniper Andrews.

I….I know he died, but we weren't married. And you're wrong, February Ninth isn't the anniversary of his death, it's the anniversary of, of……

We know this must be very stressful for you. We'll give you some time, they say, leaving the Dixie cup of multi colored pills behind. Confused, yet sure of this, he puts them in his mouth, swallows them down.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He's dreaming, he thinks. Or its a memory…?

They're on the couch, him and Juniper, watching reruns of some old show on the tv, cuddling.

"I love you, Al."

"I love you too," he replies, holding Juniper closer.

Then suddenly 

SCREECH

 

SQUEAL

 

SCREAM

 

CRASH

And 

B L A C K

 

\-------------------------------------  
He awakes with a start, wet with sweat, ew. He hasn't had night terrors like that since…..since the accident. So it's true then. Everything was a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me how you feel and what you think!


	13. Cracked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ending. Short, but I think it fitting. I hope you've enjoyed it, and hopefully you will stick around for 'Fractured'. It will contain sort of trivia-y chapters, basically filling in some blanks or maybe showing off some fluff. You can make some 'Fractured' requests even. Go ahead. ^_^

It’s an awful thing, you know. Losing your mind. Losing yourself, even. And your best friend or lover or whatever the hell that bastard is. Was. He's gone now, Al is sure of it. Here's how the whole story played out. It goes a bit like this.

\----

 

Bullied in his youth, Al turned to his only friend, Juniper. They went off to the same college, two years apart, Al in advanced courses with Juniper finishing up his last two years for a bachelor's degree in engineering and basic courses. They both graduated at the same time, Al choosing a career in culinary, Juniper choosing to serve his country by joining the Marine Corps. Juniper served four years, now twenty six and in the same city as his best friend. They become flat mates, Al a chef in some cozy restaurant, taking up a hobby in painting and sculpting. They eventually fell in love, dated and adopted a daughter together, a small girl with bone cancer that had destroyed her legs, Emma. 

 

They marry in 2008, and then comes the accident. Juniper is killed in a car accident, when he was returning home one fateful evening. Along with him, was his ever so fragile daughter, the impact instantly killing her as well, Juniper dying in the hospital. Heartbroken, Al manages to have their bodies transported and buried in his home state of Tennessee, choosing not to bury them at his hometown, not wanting to resurface bad memories.

 

Al decides to return to his temporary home in Chicago, meeting single father Oscar (in 2013), who turned out to be his old bully, but had changed for the better long ago. Oscar has a ten year old daughter, coincidentally born on the same month, year and almost day as Emma, only a day apart in age. She becomes his sort of surrogate child, his grief causing him to delude himself into thinking they're twins, and that Oscar had killed Emma, completely erasing Juniper's memory. Oscar also has a son, James, but because Al never had a son previously, the boy barely fits into his delusions. Eventually, in November of 2015, they marry, Oscar not noticing his husband's mental health due to unknown circumstances. 

 

Al's cousin, Nicole, has a car crash, Al deciding to become her part time caretaker, when she goes into a vegetative state, he takes her home, keeping her in the furnished basement bedroom. Madness and delusions plaguing him, Al falls into a hallucinatory mindset, smothering his cousin with a pillow, not to mention abusing himself physically, starving himself and hiding it from Oscar, blaming the other man in his personal diary for abusing him.

 

And that's when the cops arrive, take him away and now this. The year is 2018. Month of February, the ninth, the anniversary of Juniper and Emma's deaths, and now Nicole's as well. Al has been in careful treatment since Octobrr of 2017, mental rehabilitation by court order going swimmingly. Al seems to have regained most of his senses, remembers everything that happened accordingly. 

 

After all, who else could tell you all of this?

 

And the real question is

Do you believe it?

 

 

Is Al a victim of abuse, or is his mind just…….. 

 

 

Cracked?


End file.
